


False Pretense

by iridescentAI



Series: The Space Between [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Felix gets his hair braided, Female My Unit | Byleth, Flirting, M/M, Making Out, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Relationship Negotiation, Sylvain cannot take his foot out of his mouth, Threesome - F/M/M, but it's just kissing, but we knew that already, everyone is in love with Byleth, it's literally just that all the houses are working together post-timeskip, where is Sylvain's self worth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-11-08 18:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentAI/pseuds/iridescentAI
Summary: Okay, so you're in love with your (former) professor. So is your best friend. You are also in love with your best friend.Go.





	1. Sylvain

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2! More pining! More agonizing tension! Huzzah!

“Sylvain,”

The man in question stops what he’s doing -- which is nothing much, just greenhouse duty -- as soon as he registers who’s calling upon him. Lorenz, also on duty, grumbles about "work ethic" and "easily swayed" under his breath when Sylvain abandons his post.

“Professor,” the Faerghus noble returns the greeting as he sets his watering can down. “How are you?” 

"Just fine." She nods as she approaches, ever calm, and stops at a respectful distance in front of him.

Nevertheless, Sylvain's heart is _racing_. He’s really got to get this under control.

"Mercedes told me you two were in here." The professor informs him. 

At the name, Lorenz flinches away, scuttling deeper into leafy ferns and curling vines. 

The Alliance noble would _never_ admit it, but Mercedes scares the _shit_ out of him. 

They're on friendly terms now that Lorenz has given up the "I must find a wife befitting of my title" plug, but Sylvain would bet his entire estate that Lorenz has been on the receiving end of Mercie's signature "warm smile, freezing words" sting _just_ enough times to give the woman a wide berth.

Sylvain doesn't blame him. Mercie can be pretty scary when she wants to be. 

The more he thinks about it, the more he comes to the conclusion that he and Mercedes are kindred souls, cut from the same cloth-

"I was wondering if you'd heard anything from Felix," Byleth's voice, carefully neutral, breaks him out of his reverie.

Sylvain makes a show of pondering, but really he just wonders if Mercedes has an equally as aggravating childhood friend that she happens to be attracted to in _her_ life.

"I might know something," he admits eventually, flashing a teasing grin. 

Byleth crosses her arms, raises an eyebrow, and waits. A silent command to _spill._

"Maybe I'll tell you if you take me to tea," her former student wheedles, bending to scoop up the watering can he'd abandoned. "It'd be great if we could talk about something that's _not_ Felix while we're there, too."

"Oh,” surprised, Byleth's arms drop to her sides. “I'm sorry, Sylvain,"

Sylvain dons his brightest grin. Because he really doesn’t mind that the person he’s interested in only wants to talk about the other person he’s interested in but can’t have. Not at all. Absolutely not.

“S’okay, professor. I understand.” He winks at her before tending to the plant in front of him, admiring the waxy leaves before checking the soil’s dampness. 

If his old professor needs his help to get closer to Felix, then help he will give. 

Who is he to deny a request from _Byleth Eisner?_

Besides, Sylvain has no shortage of contingency plans. Women fall all over him everywhere he goes. Sure, he’ll never love any of them as much as he loves Byleth or Felix, but Sylvain won’t be alone if Byleth leaves him for someone else. 

He will, he’ll be so alone, isolated, walled off for the rest of his life, 

Felix, however… Felix needs someone like Byleth -- someone that won’t stop trying to reach him, someone that won’t balk at insults and snide remarks, someone that won’t be fooled by his sullen outer shell. 

He needs that too, he needs someone like that, he needs Byleth,

If this is what his professor wants, Sylvain will do whatever he can to help.

Even if it means destroying himself.

“Oh, and,” Sylvain adds, turning away from the purple buds blooming in front of him. “I’m no expert or anything, but… if you’re worried about Felix, maybe you should ask Felix about it?” He ventures, lifting an eyebrow in her direction. 

In one moment, Byleth’s eyes go wide -- the equivalent of anyone else’s jaw dropping -- and in the next, she winces, seemingly appalled by her own actions.

“I’m sorry, Sylvain,” she presses a fist to her chest and bows -- un_bearably_ formal -- and when she stands up straight again, her face has been wiped clean of emotion. “Thanks for setting me straight.” 

The sentiment catches him off guard. Him, Sylvain Jose Gautier, the worst student at Garreg Mach, putting Byleth Eisner, professor extraordinaire, back in her place. 

He can't help but laugh -- and the poor flowers beneath him get sloshed with a little too much water. Oh well.

“No problem,” he manages, trying and failing to bite his lip to contain his grin. “See ya!”

Byleth nods, as concise as ever, calls a goodbye to Lorenz, and heads out. 

As soon as her mint green hair is out of sight, Sylvain’s impeccable posture vanishes, leaving him slumped over his watering can.

This is a _lot_.

It all sits like a weight on top of his shoulders, pushing him down down down. 

Being around Byleth isn’t like being around his other flings. With them, there’s no pressure. Nothing he says matters, because they only care about themselves. They don’t bother to look past the surface, and they don’t care about _him_. The feeling is often mutual.

With Byleth, _everything matters._ Everything he says, everything he does, because she sees right through him. Because she’s _looking._ And he _cares_what she sees in him.

Not to mention, Felix is also in love with Byleth and is apparently doing his damndest to push her away before she gets too close and he has to… open up, or something. Have feelings. Who knows. 

Regardless, Sylvain has to balance helping Byleth and helping Felix _and_ helping himself. And it’s not going very well.

Sylvain lets out the groan that’s been building up in his chest ever since the professor called for his attention.

Lorenz peers around the corner, summoned by the sound. Sylvain straightens, ready to wave the noble off, tell him everything’s fine, but the look etched into Lorenz’s face isn’t curiosity. 

It’s pity. 

“My deepest condolences,” the man offers, brushing purple hair over his shoulder. The look in his eyes tells Sylvain that he’s absolutely serious. “You’re truly in a tough spot.”

Sylvain bites back the urge to sink his teeth into the lavender clad noble. 

_Lorenz is being genuinely concerned for you. You can’t snap at him just because you’re frustrated. You’d be no better than Felix. _

“Can’t say I know what you’re talking about,” he laughs, feigning ignorance straight to Lorenz’s face. _Great._ “It’s my pleasure to help our dear professor in whatever way I can.” 

Lorenz’s expression doesn’t change. Thin eyebrows stay scrunched over violet eyes, thin lips pressed into a thinner line, regarding Sylvain with concern -- and maybe sympathy?

“I can’t believe I’m saying this to _you_, of all people,” Lorenz opens with something of a grimace, his mouth twisting up a little. “But your choice of action is truly noble. I admire your strength.” 

Sylvain knows what he’s referring to. 

Putting Byleth before himself, putting _Felix_ before himself, pushing the two together regardless of how far away it pushes him in return.

He drops the act, the attempt at a pleasant expression wiped clean off of his face in favor of a tight frown. “It’s not strength.” Sylvain bites out, aiming the sharp tone of his voice at the plant in front of him. 

“Pardon me?” Lorenz returns, a gloved hand floating to hover over his heart. “I daresay prioritizing the wellbeing of a friend over your own feelings is a powerful strength -- a strength most people don’t seem to possess nowadays, mind you.” 

Sylvain just shakes his head. He can’t argue this one, not with Lorenz. Not with anybody.

When he turns his back to Lorenz, the Alliance noble gets the point. It’s quiet enough that the swish of his expensive, violet clothing is audible as he turns back to the tomato plant he’d been weeding beforehand.

_Good job, Sylvain. Now you’ve worried Lorenz._

Sylvain used to think Lorenz was just like him: a skirt chaser for the hell of it, pursuing women simply because they deserve to be desired. See a beautiful woman? She ought to know! Once upon a time, they had even competed over pickup lines and compliments.

Nowadays, he knows that’s not the case. Their motives _wildly_ differ.

The difference between them is that Lorenz goes into these interactions assuming that the end result will be positive, that he will either gain a life-long partner, or discover that relationship was not meant to be, that he should move on. Sylvain assumes -- and assumes correctly -- that the end result will be negative. It’s use or be used, and he’s been used too many times to idly stand by anymore. 

Sylvain doesn’t flirt and date to better himself of his future. He does it to destroy himself.

Helping Byleth get closer to Felix is just another way to sing the same song. 

So sue him if he doesn’t see that as strength. 

He stews in his own thoughts for the rest of the shift, torn between beating himself up over snubbing Lorenz or beating himself up about letting Byleth go or beating himself up about even _considering_ taking something so precious away from his best friend --

“Professor!” Lorenz cries out when Byleth marches back through the greenhouse doors unannounced. “Did you forget something?” 

Byleth nods -- wordless, precise. 

Sylvain’s too deep in his thoughts to chance facing her right now. He hopes Lorenz will distract her with some small talk. 

“I could not help but overhear your concerns earlier,” the Alliance noble prattles on -- bless him. “I hope I am not prying too deeply to wonder if everything is sorted out between you and Heir Fraldarius?” 

Sylvain wonders if Byleth wrinkles her nose as much as he does at the formality. _Heir Fraldarius._

“I believe I’m making headway.” Is Byleth’s answer, curt and full of determination. 

“I am glad to hear it!” Lorenz cries, surely smiling and congratulating their former professor. “I wish you the very best, as always.”

Sylvain barely hears Byleth thank Lorenz, barely hears whatever they talk about next. 

He’s watering this plant and checking the leaves and the soil but everything is on autopilot. He can’t feel his fingers. 

He _does_ feel the warm pressure of a hand on his shoulder. 

And after he registers that, he catches the tail end of a quiet “Sylvain,” spoken in a tone he knows well from class. It’s the one she uses when it isn’t the first time she’s tried to get his attention. It’s a tone he’s quite familiar with. 

Somehow, that calms him down. 

“I forgot to ask you to tea.” She announces as soon as he turns his attention towards her. 

He waits for her to say more, but that’s it. 

(He doesn’t know why he waited -- of _course_ that’s it, it’s _Byleth_, when does she _ever_ say more than she needs? He must be _seriously_ out of it…) 

“Sounds great!” The tone of his voice is bright -- _way_ more convincing than he’d thought it was going to be. “When would you like to meet?”

Byleth doesn’t answer immediately, responding to his question with silence and an expression he can’t read. Which… isn’t new. 

He just _looks_ at her in return, taking in green eyes and green hair and strong arms and soft skin and --

“After this shift.” She decides, voice firm with finality. 

“Oh, professor, eager to speak with me?” Sylvain teases, letting something of a genuine smile tug at his lips. 

Byleth doesn’t even blink before nodding, steadfast in her decision, unfazed by the syrupy sweet tone. 

_Goddess, he’s in love with her. He’s so in love with her._

She bids them farewell for the moment, telling Sylvain she’s going to fish at the docks until his shift is over, and walks out the door as briskly as she came in. 

Lorenz and Sylvain both stare after her. 

“She’s incredible.” Sylvain whispers. 

“Truly amazing.” Lorenz agrees with no hesitation. 

\---

When his shift is over, he’s covered in dirt. (In the five years since the monastery was abandoned, some of the plants grew out of control. They were tasked with replanting the herbs, since they were beginning to overtake the vegetables.)

The professor’s no better off -- her hands are bloody from removing fish from hooks, and she smells like raw seafood. 

They both agree they’re in no state to have tea and decide to meet up after a quick wash and change of clothes. 

And maybe Sylvain dons a nicer shirt than usual, maybe he throws on the cloak that Ingrid said makes his shoulders look nice -- the one that’s the same shade as the night sky, royal blue with gold stitching. Admiring himself in the mirror, he appreciates that the gold really brings out the warm notes in his skin, in his fiery hair. And so what if he dots a bit of cologne on his wrists and combs his hair for the third time today?

So what if he absolutely _revels_ in the doubletake his professor does when they meet up in the courtyard? 

“Date tonight?” She wonders aloud. Does he cherish the way her green eyes sweep over his frame? _Absolutely_. 

“Sure thing,” he grins -- purposefully leaving out the fact that this _is_ the date he prepared for. 

Byleth squints at him for a moment, as if she’s trying to decode something, then murmurs, “Should I have changed?” 

It’s quite possible that this is a trap, that she’s seen through him and she’s asking if she should’ve dressed up for what he sees as a date. It’s also possible that she’s as harmlessly naive as ever and asking if she should’ve matched the level of effort he put into dressing for their chat over tea.

Regardless of the consequences, Sylvain doesn’t hesitate to throw himself forwards. “You look absolutely stunning as you are.” 

He’s not lying, but he’s comforted when she rolls her eyes. 

They talk about lots of things during tea. As usual, discussions of the upcoming battle, the outlook of the war, politics, and rebuilding the monastery nearly put him to sleep. Byleth’s always had an eye for topics of conversations, so she moves on quickly. 

“Earlier today, Mercedes and I had a pretty in depth discussion of the formula for Ragnarok.” Byleth informs him while he takes another sip of bergamot tea. “It seems she’s having trouble grasping the concept.”

Sylvain hums after he swallows, running through the incantation in his head. “It can be tricky if you don’t say it right. It’s one of few spells that’s really picky about the cadence of your voice.” 

Byleth hides a smile behind her teacup. 

“You really should sign up to hold a seminar on black magic.” She urges him -- a request that’s not new to his ears. “I can’t tell you how many students would be eager to attend.” 

Ah. She tricked him into admitting he knows more about magic than he’s letting on. 

Sylvain can’t help but scoff. “Sorry, professor, but my reputation around here doesn’t really have anything to do with academics. I don’t think anyone would take me seriously, much less show up.” 

“You’d be surprised.” Byleth muses, inspecting a bite-sized cake. “Word on the street is that you’ve got an aptitude for this stuff.” 

“_Professor_,” Sylvain whines, exaggerating his pout for show. “Have you been spreading rumors about me?” 

There’s absolutely no shame in Byleth’s nod. “Annette’s really the one singing your praises. I just agree with her.” 

“Oh, take it back,” he immediately pleads, disappointed. “I’d rather it be you.” 

The corners of her eyes crinkle. He swears the goddess shines through her smile. 

_This is it, he dies like this, stricken by a fatal heart attack under the spotlight of her pleased grin. Tell Felix he can have the Gautier estate --_

“I’m serious,” she reiterates, oblivious to his dramatic inner monologue. “Think of the number of people who would attend! Annette, Mercedes, Marianne, maybe even Lysithea -- Lorenz always jumps at the opportunity to improve,” she lists, ticking off on her fingers. 

“Sounds like a classroom full of beautiful, impressive women,” Sylvain considers the concept, imagining the pretty faces focused intently on him while he teaches his class. “I’m interested.” 

“Dorothea could be convinced -- maybe even Hubert,” she continues, ignoring him.

“Oh, professor, don’t flatter me,” he waves her off, banishing the thought of stern-faced _Hubert_ staring him down while he attempted to explain the intricacies of Bolganone. 

“I bet you Felix would attend,” she offers -- and it sounds like an _offer_, especially with the way her voice drops oddly low while she looks up at him through her eyelashes. 

Sylvain swallows. Hard.

Maybe a sullen glare fixed on him while he lectures wouldn’t be so bad. 

“Now you’re just making things up.” Sylvain dismisses the thought, sweeping away the warmth that coils in the pit of his stomach at the mental image of intense crimson eyes.

“I would be there.” 

Consider him reheated. 

“Well,” Sylvain drawls, dropping the pitch of his voice to match hers. “Now you have my attention.” 

“Oh no, Sylvain,” comes the smooth return, “You have mine.” 

_He’s going to die, he’s going to die, he’s going to melt right here, his heart’s going to jump right out of his throat, his professor is going to see his boner and she’s going to kill him, he’s going to die,_

“Consider me convinced,” damn his smooth tongue, he doesn’t miss a beat. “Where do I sign up?” 

Conversation shifts to academics after that, and, thank the goddess, Byleth goes back to talking in her usual octave. 

It doesn’t take her long to shift academics to training, and after training comes,

“Felix,” Byleth sighs, her shoulders slumping. “I stopped by the training grounds and sparred with him today.”

Sylvain tries to pretend like he’s not interested, taking a politely detached sip of tea. “How’d that go?” 

Mint green hair scatters when she shakes her head. “I promised.” She reminds him. “Teatime is about you.” 

Sylvain is… oddly flattered by that. 

“Well, tell me if you pissed him off or not -- that affects me, y’know,” he trails off, hoping the joking tone will prod her along, but she just gets that sad look on her face and shrugs. “It can’t be that bad. Felix isn’t _that_ hard to understand.”

Byleth gives in a little under his prodding, lacing her fingers together on top of the table while she rolls the subject around in her head. 

“It’s not that I don’t _understand_,” she begins, hesitant to admit to her findings. “I just can’t _assume_. I need to hear it from him.”

_Oh._

If Byleth is saying what Sylvain _thinks_ she’s saying… then _everyone_ in this monastery is _fucked_.

“Oh,” is all Sylvain can get to come out of his mouth at first -- and Byleth raises an eyebrow at the sound, probably because he sounds like he’s been kicked in the chest. “Why don’t we have dinner tonight? You, me, and Felix? I’ll go talk to him, try and wiggle some answers out of him, and maybe we’ll see some results tonight!” He offers -- even though every word feels like a knife digging into his throat. 

“Sure,” Byleth agrees -- but it’s slow, _very_ hesitant. “But Sylvain,”

“Yes, professor?” He puts on his best innocent face, but she’s not fooled. (He wouldn’t expect anything less.)

“Felix isn’t the only one I need to hear the truth from.” She levels a very professor-esque glare on him. If she had glasses, she’d be peering over them. He feels goosebumps rise on his forearms. “And I don’t think I’m the only one that needs to hear it, either.” 

Sylvain has never been in control of his tongue. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come to tea with the love of his life today. 

“Alright,” he caves immediately, still holding her gaze. “I’m madly in love with you.” 

There’s a pause. He’s on _fire_, that _feeling_ in his chest roaring to life, swallowing him whole.

Byleth doesn’t move. Neither does Sylvain. 

Then -- of all things -- Byleth snorts. 

It’s a soft sound, a little puff of air through her nose. A little smile pulls at her lips, flattered, but not entirely convinced. 

“Sure, Sylvain.” Her response is soft -- _weirdly _vulnerable for someone who seems to be turning him down. “Come back when you’re serious.” 

_Oh._

She -- she can’t _seriously_ think that he’s -- but of _course_ she would, what reason does she have to believe _you? _Sylvain Jose Gautier, skirt chaser, heartbreaker extraordinaire? 

Like a true noble, he can do nothing but sit there and stare, schooling his expression into something passive and carefully neutral. 

His body is heavy, his heart _aches_. 

That fluttering in his chest has been replaced by something so much darker, by a disappointment he’s always feared to face. 

“The thing is,” he begins -- and his voice is too strong for how weak his knees feel, “If I tell Felix the truth, he’s going to say the exact same thing.”

Byleth just _looks_ at him with that fucking blank stare, and Sylvain knows he can do nothing but suck it up and move on. He stands, slings his coat over his shoulders, and scrambles for something to say.

He’s got nothing. Nothing worthy of an upcoming knight, at least. 

Once, when he asked Alois what the trick to being a brave knight was, he got a response he wasn’t expecting. 

_I think the bravest knights are the knights that keep their chin up in times of adversity. If you can still smile after defeat -- if loss doesn’t steal your laugh -- then you’ll win every battle. _

All he can do is walk away.

When Byleth calls after him, something pleading in her tone that he refuses to acknowledge, Sylvain does a short 180 on his heel, puts on his best smile, and waves as cheerfully as he can.

“See you at dinner!” He promises before turning back around. 

Byleth doesn’t pursue him. Sylvain keeps his chin up until he’s out of sight. 

\---

For a while, he wanders aimlessly. 

He must look intimidating, or at least, he must be taking people by surprise, what with his cloak billowing out behind him, fists clenched at his sides, handsome features clouded and stormy. People move out of his way when he approaches, ducking into hallways and pressing themselves against walls. 

Even Edelgard moves, tugging an obstinate Hubert out of the line of fire just in time. 

He doesn't want to talk to anyone, and he doesn't want to do anything, but he knows if he stops and sits inside all of these emotions, he'll break.

This time around, the break won't be quiet relief. If he breaks now, it will be loud, and it will be _mean_.

Sylvain puts on a pleasant smile for the world, charming people into thinking he's just an airhead with no strong feelings about anything in particular. The smile is a part of him now, but it's still a mask.

His real smile is sharper. Full of teeth.

Not many people can handle that smile -- not even his closer friends. Dimitri would take it as a threat and Ingrid would either crumple or push him away. He really doesn't need any of that right now. 

He can’t go to Byleth. Not for this one.

But Felix… Felix doesn't cower away, nor does he lash out at the threat. He seems to like Sylvain _better_ when the teeth come out. Felix, he… _Felix._

He catches himself running through Felix's schedule in his head -- today the swordsman has a shift in the stables, then he'll probably hit the training grounds. But he always stops by his room before dinner…

Before Sylvain can stop himself, his feet carry him in the direction of Felix's dorm. 

When he gets there, the room’s empty. Which is fine. He can wait. 

Instead of drowning in the overwhelming slew of thoughts tearing through his brain, Sylvain completely zones out, going offline until further notice. 

_Come back when you’re serious._

_As if he’s not serious, as if he doesn’t mean it. He’s never been more serious about anything in his life._

_How is he supposed to --_

Further notice ends up being knuckles in his arm. It’s more of a push than a punch, enough to unbalance him and force his systems to come back online. 

Sylvain turns slowly, still processing the input, and finally focuses in on crimson eyes. 

Felix doesn’t say anything, but the way he lifts an eyebrow while he takes in the bleak look in Sylvain’s eyes says enough. 

Sylvain doesn’t say anything either. He does, however, notice the towel around Felix’s neck, the sheen of freshly washed hair, the black strands falling out of a hastily pulled up ponytail. He takes a deep breath to ground himself and only ends up breathing in the scent of soap and _Felix_. 

For a moment, he thinks Felix is about to send him away. 

But he doesn’t. 

Without a word, the shorter man opens his door, holding it until Sylvain gets the idea and steps inside. The _click_ of the latch behind him sends shivers down his spine -- which is completely unrelated to the brush of Felix’s body against him as he slips past.

Sylvain hovers by the door while Felix rattles around his room, pushing things into drawers and making his bed and pulling his sword from the sheath at his waist -- _wait_,

But Felix doesn’t threaten him or anything too terribly in character. He just sits down on his bed and starts sharpening the blade with a well-worn whetstone. The rhythmic motion of his hand across the blade and the measured sound of the whetstone against metal lulls Sylvain into an odd sort of trance. 

When Felix nods to the spot beside him, Sylvain follows the command without hesitation. As he acquiesces, the bob of Felix’s head grows increasingly insistent, guiding his friend to sit beside the arm that holds the blade still, not the arm that sharpens it -- lest Sylvain be repeatedly elbowed and possibly stabbed -- and soon, they settle into place. 

For a while, Sylvain just stares at his hands where they lie limp in his lap. But, after a few more consistent strokes of stone against metal lull him into complacency, his head falls to rest on Felix’s shoulder. 

He just listens to the scrape of the whetstone echo through Felix’s body, listens to his bones grind and pop with the movement, feels the muscles in his shoulders tense and relax as he maintenances his blade. 

Finally, _finally_, Sylvain finds his voice again.

“I’m trying to smile, but I don’t think I can.” 

He hates that he can only manage a wheezy whisper, but it’s something, at least. 

Felix’s body rocks back in time with a tiny scoff. “Then don’t.” 

_It’s not that easy._

Sylvain scrubs a hand over his face. Lets it fall back into his lap. 

“But I’m just _angry_ underneath.” The confession hisses out of him through teeth that are sharper than usual. Felix doesn’t flinch away.

“And under that?” The swordsman follows up, eyes on his blade, ears on Sylvain. 

The only response he gets is the sound of stone against metal.

_Same as you. Something small and vulnerable. Something wounded and sad._

Only when his blade is deemed sufficiently sharpened does Felix speak up again. 

“What happened?” He asks -- gentle, but not soft. 

“I had tea with Byleth. Promised you and I would have dinner with her tonight.” Felix sheathes his sword while Sylvain lists off his eventful afternoon, accompanying the bland tone of voice with an extended metallic scraping. “Told her I love her.” 

There’s a loud _click_ as the sword is sheathed to the hilt all at once. 

“You did _what?!_” Felix shouts, turning his chin to face the head of orange hair on his shoulder. 

The explosive noise echoes in the tiny room, rings in the redhead’s ears while his friend (impatiently) waits for an explanation.

Sylvain’s voice is small, too small, but he doesn’t have the strength to fake it. “Oh, come off it,” he manages a dry laugh, something that’s not quite as reassuring as he’d meant it to be. “It’s not like she took me seriously. I’m not gonna take her from you.” 

His cheek squishes into a strong shoulder when Felix sits up straighter. “Take- _take _her from me?”

Sylvain doesn’t want to answer what Felix is asking. So he sits up, gathers what little semblance of his usual personality he’s regained, and plasters on a smile. 

“Besides, I told her I’d come rattle some sense into you before we all have dinner together tonight!” He announces, taking Felix by the shoulders and facing him completely. “So tonight I’m going to help you confess to Byleth.” 

Scowling something fierce, Felix pushes him away. “Knock it off.” He grunts, shaking his head. A few more pieces of hair fall loose. The scent of citrus floats over to Sylvain. 

“I’m serious! I wanna help you!”

The vermillion stare that locks onto him narrows in suspicion. “_Why_.”

Truly, Sylvain is puzzled by this question. “Because I care about you?” He offers the answer with enough hesitancy to make Felix’s eyes narrow even further, burning into him with slits of angry crimson. Sylvain backtracks. “Because that’s what friends do? Help each other? Especially when said friend has the emotional intelligence of a brick and definitely has a chance at snagging an incredible, beautiful, _powerful_-”

“_Stop_ it,” the tone of his friend’s voice is too broken to be a command.

Sylvain’s jaw snaps shut. It’s rare to hear Felix _plead._

“Why would you _do_ that to yourself?” His friend whispers, looking _legitimately_ concerned. “I _know_ you’re in love with her -- why would you put yourself through that?”

The heir to House Gautier has known the answer to this question for a long time. 

“After everything I’ve fucked up?” Sylvain huffs out a laugh, entirely too self-deprecating for his closest friend not to notice. “Maybe I deserve to suffer.”

The confession elicits a familiar sneer from the man next to him, twisting a pretty face with contempt and disgust. 

“I won’t help you destroy yourself.” The decision is firm and it’s final. Sylvain has no say in the matter. 

That doesn’t stop him from letting out a long, put-upon sigh, a grumbled “_why not?_” making its way past his lips -- as if it will change Felix’s mind. It merely earns him another scoff, as if the answer is obvious. 

_Well it’s_ not_, Felix, so sue me for wondering --_

“Because I care about you?” The swordsman copies Sylvain’s earlier tone, offering the sentiment with hesitation. 

The pink spreading across Felix’s cheeks is almost too good to be true. 

Sylvain doesn’t allow himself to savor it for long, pitching forwards to plant his forehead on Felix’s shoulder again. Felix doesn’t fight him. 

“Don’t get my hopes up,” he mumbles into skin that smells like citrus and cinnamon. “I’ve already had them dashed once today.” 

Fingers that smell like metal and weapon polish slide into his hair, stroking once through auburn waves before settling at the base of his skull. Sylvain dares to scoot closer. 

The next words that come out of Felix’s mouth are oddly faraway, like he’s not really thinking about what he’s saying.

“Who says I don’t mean it?” He asks as he turns, pressing a narrow chin into Sylvain’s forehead. 

Sylvain dares to look up. 

Which brings him nose to nose with Felix Hugo Fraldarius, who’s hand is holding him in place, refusing to let him back away from eyes of vermillion and the enticing wash of hot breath over his skin and -- how far would he have to lean forwards to kiss his best friend anyways? He can’t tell. He’s too close to check without going cross-eyed, and his nose is probably in the way anyways. 

_I’m madly in love with you_. 

He only mouths the words, knowing full well that Felix can’t see past his own nose either.

“Sylvain,” 

His name spoken against his lips has never, _never_ sent shivers down his spine like this. 

“_Sylvain_,”

After Felix jostles him with a shake of his shoulder, the cavalier doesn’t have much of a choice but to acknowledge the call and sit up. As soon as Felix is free from the weight of Sylvain’s head, he stands up -- but it’s not to retreat, if the way he immediately turns on his heel to face the still seated man says anything. 

“Get up.” Felix demands, planting his hands on his hips. Sylvain merely stares up at him, still processing the faint memory of ebony hair and pale lips. “Get _up!_” The swordsman insists, bending to take hold of the taller man’s arm and _pull._

Now he’s standing, but still, the only thing Sylvain can do is stare.

Felix is beautiful. 

Chin tilted up in defiance, glossy black hair falling over his shoulders -- _when_ had his ponytail fallen out? -- there’s still the faintest hint of pink in his cheeks, and the red tint of his bottom lip tells Sylvain he’s been worrying at it with his teeth. 

What Sylvain _wouldn’t give_ to bite that lip for him. 

“Face me as your rival.” Red of fire and righteousness stares Sylvain down. “Meet me as your equal.” 

Sylvain has to tear his gaze away from white teeth and plush lips. 

Felix’s cheeks are definitely a brighter pink. Good. 

“Alright.” The cavalier agrees. 

This is comfortable. This is familiar. He and Felix _always_ compete. They always have. 

“I’ll come to dinner with you.” Felix continues to plan out their evening as if Sylvain isn’t thinking about kissing the shorter man senseless. “We should both confess to Byleth. Stand on equal ground and see what she thinks.”

There’s a moment of silence where Felix waits for a response -- and then probably realizes that Sylvain’s still not really back to normal. 

“Can you still braid?” 

Sylvain blinks, taking one step back into reality. “Huh?” 

The flush on Felix’s cheeks deepens, and he scowls as if Sylvain has told him he’s bringing a girl back to his room tonight. “Can you still _braid_, blockhead? You know, like, _hair?_” 

“Of course I can,” Sylvain huffs, fighting a frown. “Why?” 

Instead of answering, Felix turns on his heel and makes a beeline for his closet. 

Sylvain opens his mouth to question after him, to request an explanation, but Felix pulls off his shirt before he can make any words come out. 

Sylvain closes his mouth. 

The realization hits him, not for the first time that evening, that Felix is _beautiful_. 

He’s the same shade of pale as everyone in the Northern Kingdom, smooth skin littered with scars from countless battles, taut with muscle from countless hours of practice. Sylvain lets his eyes wander, taking in biceps and triceps and shoulders and the line of his spine, the small of his back -- 

“This is a really stupid question, but,” Felix calls out, grabbing Sylvain’s attention. “Do you think I look better in blue or red?” 

Without turning around, the swordsman holds up two coats, one a dark teal, the other a wine red. They’re both _nice_, clearly meant for special occasions -- and Sylvain wonders if Felix is _already_ trying to one-up him. 

Sylvain’s feet carry him forward under the guise of seeing the garments up close, but when he reaches the swordsman, he merely hovers behind him, letting the warmth of his body seep into the shorter man. 

“I think you look good in anything.” Sylvain informs him, absolutely truthfully. Felix gives him a sharp _tch_ in response, and Sylvain can’t help but laugh. “Depends on what color pants you’re planning on wearing. Brown for blue, black for red.” 

Felix hangs up the red coat. “I’ve already got enough red and black happening,” a pale hand gestures vaguely to his face. “White shirt?” 

“White shirt.” Sylvain agrees. A flash of white and a rustle is the only warning he gets before there’s a shirt hanging over his shoulder. “Good aim!” 

Felix grunts in response. _What a charmer._

“Brown, brown, brown…” the swordsman murmurs, bending to rummage through his drawers. Sylvain takes a step back, shamelessly admiring the curve of Felix’s ass. “Ah,” 

If Sylvain thought _he_ was shameless, he’s got _nothing_ on Felix -- as evidenced by the fingers that dig into his waistband and yank his pants off of his hips. 

While he steps out of one pair of pants and into another, Felix glances over his shoulder and frowns. “Start unbuttoning that.” He directs, nodding to the shirt still thrown over the taller man’s shoulder. 

“Yessir,” Sylvain accompanies the quip with a crisp salute, grinning when Felix hastily looks away. When Felix turns to face him completely, pants secured around his hips, Sylvain bats at the shorter man’s arms until he raises them, then begins to pull the sleeves over pale wrists. 

“What are you doing?” The swordsman asks, but there’s no venom in his voice. He just watches while the redhead tugs crisp white fabric over his arms, oddly pliant in the larger man’s grasp.

Sylvain pulls the shirt up over his shoulders and smooths down the front with both hands. “See how the buttons are on this side? These shirts are meant to be buttoned by someone else.” 

_By your wife, _is the first thought that comes to Sylvain’s mind. It’s something his father told him when he was younger and struggling to correctly button up his shirt. 

“I’m ambidextrous,” Felix argues, reaching up to bat calloused hands away from the lapels of his shirt. 

Sylvain doesn’t retreat. “Regardless,” he murmurs, kneeling in front of the swordsman. “It’s easier this way.” 

The cavalier would be lying if his fingers didn’t burn with every brush against Felix’s skin, if he didn’t shiver every time he registered taut muscles beneath his knuckles. Felix was _tense_, frozen in place, but he didn’t push him away. 

“All the way up?” Sylvain murmurs, keeping his voice low, careful not to break the tension between them. The nod Felix manages is jerky, mechanical. He swallows hard when Sylvain’s fingers brush against his throat. The pale column of his neck _beckons_ Sylvain to press his lips there, to kiss, suck, bite, _mark_ \--

Sylvain stands after he fastens the last button, removing himself from the temptation. 

Vermillion eyes stare up at him.

Amber eyes stare back. 

“Braid my hair.” 

Felix demands.

Sylvain complies.

And even after Felix’s long, glossy hair twists around his head, lying shiny and smooth over his shoulder, Sylvain can’t bring himself to step away. 

Trailing his fingers over his handiwork, following the path of each partition down to the tie that cinches the end, he can’t stop _touching_ him. He _doesn’t_ stop himself from tracing the angle of Felix’s jaw, applying the gentlest of pressure under his chin -- as if Felix would follow such a command.

And wouldn’t you know it, like a dream come true, Felix tilts his head up to face him, lips parted in the smallest exhale.

And, like a man spiraling out of control, Sylvain bends to meet him.

He’s not sure if he should be grateful or disappointed that Felix stops him, pressing a thin, calloused hand to Sylvain’s face and pushing back until Sylvain stands straight again. 

Felix lets out a long sigh. He sounds as defeated as Sylvain feels. 

“Let’s go to dinner. I’m sure the professor is waiting for us.”


	2. Felix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, i love writing the same scene from a different perspective.

“Felix,”

The man in question ignores the summons. He continues the comfortable rhythm he’s settled into, swaying left to right -- scoop, lean, throw -- dead set on moving this pile of hay before his shift ends. Dead set on ignoring the way his heart begins to thunder in his chest.

“Aren’t you hot?” Byleth wonders, eyeing his fur coat as she circles around him. “Dimitri’s barely got any clothes on, at this point.” 

Felix answers with a sneer, knowing full well that the boar prince has shed nearly every layer of clothing since they started their shift in the stables. 

“I brought some cold water from the mess hall,” the professor continues to speak to him despite his silence and extends a water pouch in his direction. “Take a break.” 

She stands there with her arm outstretched until Felix finally stops and snatches the damned thing from her. The rushed motion earns him a raised eyebrow, but Byleth doesn’t say anything more. Instead, she turns away, heading in Dimitri’s direction with another pouch in hand. 

Felix does not watch her leave. 

He does not watch her jostle Dimitri’s attention out of the rut he’s worked himself into (not unlike Felix). He does not watch Dimitri’s expression shift from focused to pissed to surprised to pleased -- emotions Felix definitely cannot pick out solely by merit of the tension around the prince’s eyes. (It’s not like they’ve known each other forever or anything…) 

He definitely does not watch Dimitri’s cheeks go pink when he realizes he’s standing bare-chested in front of their former professor, nor does he envy the way Byleth reaches up to ruffle the boar prince’s hair with no regard to how sweaty the blond locks are. 

He definitely does _not care_ that the ever-present tension in Dimitri’s shoulders disappears, or that the words Byleth speaks to him bring the ghost of a smile to his royal highness’ face. He definitely does _not care_ about how _obviously_ gentle Byleth is with the prince, as if she’s soothing a skittish beast -- which isn’t… far from the truth, when it comes to Dimitri.

He looks away when Byleth finally turns back towards him. He hears her footsteps approach -- but only barely, she was a mercenary, after all -- and doesn’t look up when she stops by his side. 

“Felix?” She tries again, taking one step closer. “Do you have a moment?”

Something unfamiliar twists in his chest. 

“Can’t you see I’m working?” Felix snaps, throttling the water pouch in one of his fists. 

_Good going, Felix. Lashing out. At this rate, you’re no better than the feral prince._

His gaze swings over to Dimitri, who looks soft and confused -- leagues less terrifying than his usual bordering-on-feral attitude. 

_Actually, you’re_ worse _than the prince. Good going, Felix._

When he looks back over to Byleth, he finds her expression as neutral as ever -- save the one eyebrow that’s slowly creeping higher.

“I daresay you’re taking a water break, right now.” She returns, patiently cutting away his hastily built defenses. “Besides, your shift is over in a couple minutes anyways. Dimitri says as soon as you two finish these piles, you’re free to go.” 

Felix muffles a _tch_ into the water pouch and takes a swig of -- _oh_. Oh, he’s _thirsty_, he’s damn near _parched_ \--

Green eyes crinkle in amusement while they watch Felix drain the pouch all in one go, clutching the container like a lifeline. When he finishes the supply, he lets go with a wet gasp -- having completely forgone breathing in favor of drinking. 

Felix returns the water pouch to the hand that stretches out in his direction. He wishes she didn’t look so pleased. 

Her outstretched hand doesn’t retreat after he fills it with the empty pouch. It stays there, waiting for something else.

“Give me your coat.” 

Byleth isn’t fazed by the frown that pulls at his lips. She just stands there, motionless, steadfast. Waiting. 

Realizing he’ll never get his work done at this rate, Felix caves, unfastening the fur-lined coat and slipping it off his shoulders. When he deposits it in Byleth’s arms, she stumbles a little under the weight of it. 

“How have you been working in the sun with this thing on?” She demands. It’s her turn to frown now -- but the expression is too cute to properly guilt him, especially when she’s peering up at him over the bulk of his coat. 

“I’m not weak like the prince.” Felix answers automatically. He reaches for the pitchfork he’d been using as soon as Byleth steps out of his way. 

He has a job to do. 

He can’t be sidetracked by… by… 

_“The professor. You’re in love with her.”_

Felix settles back into his previous stance, all too ready to throw himself back into his work.

Now considerably lighter without his coat on, his first forkful of hay flies a bit too far from the stack he’d been working on. Whoops. 

The wind feels nice against his back -- which he’s sure has soaked through his shirt with sweat. 

He glances over to Byleth, prepared to offer a begrudging _thank you_, but the words get all tangled in his throat when his gaze finally lands on her. 

Besides the fact that he’s got the hots for his old professor, he can’t quite dredge up his voice while she’s standing there with her nose buried in his coat. It’s surreptitious, very stealthy, but when her shoulders slowly rise up up up, he knows _exactly_ what she’s doing. 

And suddenly, the wind is not enough to cool him down. 

He has _no idea_ how to handle this information. Aside from the optimistic obvious, _what does this mean?!_

“Felix, hurry up.” Byleth calls. “I’m waiting on you. I want to talk to you about something.” 

Actually, forget figuring this out. He might need to _evacuate the premises_.

_Especially_ considering how tight his trousers are getting. 

(He should _not_ be so excited over a simple inhale, but he _can’t stop thinking_ about the impli_cations_ of such an action -- is he looking too far into things? Is he just horny? Is he seriously considering asking Sylvain what it means when someone takes a deep breath of your clothing? Of your _scent?_ Sylvain would know, wouldn’t he? _Wouldn’t he??_)

_Work, he’s working, he’s working, not thinking about Byleth, not thinking about Sylvain._

He finishes his task much quicker than he means to. He finishes his task _so_ quickly that Dimitri still has a solid chunk of hay left to shovel when Felix finally puts his pitchfork down. 

He’d _meant_ to drag it out just long enough that Dimitri would leave before something truly embarrassing happened between him and the professor. 

He’ll just have to leave before anything happens. 

After he put his tools away, he makes a beeline for the back exit, heading for the path that will allow him to escape.

“Felix, _please_,” Byleth calls after him. Felix does not respond. 

He _makes_ it to a narrow corridor, relief coursing through him as he cuts around the back of the stables, the taste of victory sharp on his tongue as he nears the exit, and --

Fucking _Dimitri_ blocks his path, his one visible blue eye narrowed and his arms crossed over his chest. 

_Oh, if he’s looking for a fight --_

“You forgot your coat with the professor.” Dimitri informs him.

It stops Felix in his tracks.

The two stare at each other for a tense moment, totally silent, before Felix turns on his heel and marches back towards the stables. 

When he looks over his shoulder, Dimitri is gone. 

Byleth is waiting at the threshold of the stables with a look on her face that Felix can’t quite decipher. She extends his coat to him without a word, but she doesn’t let go when he takes it in his arms, forcing him to hover there.

“Just talk to me for a little bit, Felix.” She whispers -- and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was pleading with him. But that can’t be true, because the Ashen Demon doesn’t _plead_. “We can spar afterwards, or I can leave you alone for good. Whatever you want.” 

Felix stiffens, his fingers digging too tight into the material of his coat. 

_Whatever I want, whatever I want, whatever I want -- professor, that’s_ _dangerous__,_

_What I want is __you_. 

And he wants, _oh_ does he _want_. 

The fingers curled into his jacket yank it to his chest before he can register the movement. His feet carry him away before she can say anything else. 

He can’t stick around her for long. He’s too compromised -- as evidenced by the way he orbits around the last few words she spoke before he bolted away.

_Whatever you want._

_What he wants, what he wants,_

He wants _scary_ things. He wants to _confide_ in Byleth, to tell her he’s scared, to tell her he’s confused, to tell her he has no idea what’s going on. He wants to _trust_ Byleth, he wants to be vulnerable, wants to let down his guard, wants to _rely_ on her. 

He wants _stupid_ things. He wants her smile, wants her gentle hand on his shoulder, wants her focused glare when they spar, wants her dedication and her refusal to give up and the way she pushes him to be stronger, better, faster. He wants her to never give up on him. 

He wants _embarrassing_ things. He wants to touch her face, to kiss her mouth, to squeeze her hips, her thighs, her waist, her breasts. He wants her legs wrapped around his waist, wants her arms around his neck, wants to hold her close, wants to bury himself within her, wants to rail her into next _week_.

Pace quickening, pants growing ever tighter, Felix buries his burning face in his coat. He’s fucked. He’s absolutely, positively, _fucked._

He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head, and only inhales _Byleth_. 

_Not helping not helping not helping_

\---

By the time he gets to the training grounds, he’s managed to tamp down his raging arousal.

After Raphael throws him to the mat for their fourth round of grappling practice, he’s properly banished all inappropriate thoughts.

“That was pretty good, Felix!” Raphael crows after Felix taps out. “You almost had me, that time!”

With a strangled sigh, Felix nods as best he can while the larger man keeps him pinned to the mat. 

He likes Raphael. There’s not much in the larger man’s brain besides muscles and loyalty, but that’s alright. Raphael isn’t just dedicated, he’s good at what he does -- and Felix appreciates that. 

“What’s on your mind?” The burly man asks him as he pulls Felix to his feet. When Felix shoots him a _why do you ask_ look, Raphael merely shrugs. “I can never beat you this easily unless you’re busy thinking about something.”

Felix sighs and dusts himself off. “Well, just now, I was thinking you’re a fairly simple guy.” 

Raphael doesn’t hesitate to smile. “I am a pretty straightforward dude!” He agrees, beaming. “Nothing complex here! I just say what’s on my mind.” 

With a nod, Felix agrees. “And I appreciate that.”

Somehow, Raphael’s smile gets even larger. Felix squints -- not because it bothers him, but because Raphael is kind of like the sun, and Felix has trouble making eye contact even on a good day. 

“Another round?” The swordsman offers, settling into a ready stance. 

Raphael eagerly nods, but the motion dies off towards the end when his eyes fix onto something behind Felix’s back. 

“Oh, professor!” The taller man cries, beaming again as he waves. Felix stiffens. “You came at a good time!” Raphael turns to Felix with a grin, clearly excited. “The professor and I were sparring yesterday!” He announces, glee clear in his tone. “It was really interesting!” 

“How so?” Felix tries not to carry on the conversation through clenched teeth. He really is interested, but he can’t shake the image of Byleth and Raphael _grappling_. And he shouldn’t be jealous of _Raphael_ \-- he’s like a giant puppy, it’s probably a crime to be mad at him. 

“I thought I was gonna have to go _real_ easy on her -- not because she’s a woman, or anything!” Raphael assures him, meaty hands raised in honest surrender. “But she’s so small -- I was kinda afraid I might break her, y’know?” 

Felix nods. He does knows the feeling. The first time he’d challenged Byleth to spar, he hadn’t been expecting her to hit so _hard_. 

“But she really held her own! Of course, I still won, because I’ve been practicing for so long -- but for a second she almost had me!” Raphael explains, clearly enthused by their old professor’s wide range of skills. 

“Raphael told me that I shouldn’t spar with him.” Byleth’s voice appears right behind Felix -- damn her stealth training -- nearly startling him out of his skin. Nearly. 

Raphael looks confused for a moment, wracking his brain for the answer, but when he comes across it, his expression clears as if a cloud has lifted from in front of the sun. “Oh, right!” He remembers, smacking his palm with a fist. “I told her she should definitely spar with you instead!”

“_Why?_ ” Felix spits out, surprised. Raphael has the nerve to _laugh_, and claps a big hand onto the shorter man’s shoulder. 

“Because you’re _way_ more tactical than I am!” He explains as if it should be obvious. Though, to Raphael, it probably is. “I beat her because I’m physically stronger. Since she can’t rely on strength to overpower people, I told her she should spar with you -- so you could teach her more about strategy.” 

He really hates how sound Raphael’s reasoning is. 

Especially since Caspar shot up six inches and seriously filled out over the past five years, standing eye to eye with Felix and _completely_ overpowering him. Felix is now, officially, the weakest out of the brawlers of the original three houses, so he relies almost entirely on strategy to win a match nowadays. 

What can he say? He’s a swordfighter first, brawler second. Swords are light, and swordfighters need to be _quick_. He can’t afford to be as brawny as Caspar and Raphael. 

Byleth is… also a swordfighter. 

“Fine,” Felix relents, turning on his heel to face the professor he _knows_ stands behind him. “But I won’t go easy on you.” 

Byleth has the nerve to smile at him. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” 

\---

He quickly realizes that he’s made a mistake. 

It’s not that Byleth has shed her coat and armor and pulled her hair into a ponytail -- though that’s not helping. 

It’s that… grappling is a _contact sport._

You cannot be _shy_ while wrestling someone to the ground.

And as much as he’d been pining for it earlier, this is really not the way he’d wanted to have his arms around her waist. 

He throws her over his shoulder, but she barely blinks when she hits the ground -- merely rolls and stands back up, her fists already raised in the standard defensive position.

_She’s not new to this_, he notes. 

He barely has a second to regroup before she throws herself back into the mix, and, next thing he knows, her hand is pushing into the base of his neck, forcing his head down so she can -- 

Of all things, he is _not_ expecting her to sling her legs across his shoulders and throw him to the ground with the entire weight of her body. When she pins him, sitting heavy on his chest, his arms trapped beneath her knees, he has no choice but to tap out. 

Byleth looks… smug. 

Felix is absolutely terrified. 

_Why on earth is he turned on by this. Why. WHY?_

Fortunately, the pants he’s changed into for sparring are loose enough that it shouldn’t be all too noticeable. He gets back onto his feet and shakes his head to clear it, trying to ignore the throbbing between his legs, trying not to think about other ways he could have her thighs around his head. 

Unfortunately, grappling is a contact sport. 

You cannot be _shy_ while wrestling someone to the ground. Not even if there’s something happening in your pants. 

(It’s kind of an unspoken rule between the three men that ill-timed boners during wrestling are not to be mentioned nor discussed.)

So when he finally wrangles Byleth to the ground, he has no choice but to shift his weight to his hips to free up his arms so he can properly pin her down. He’s kind of half-kneeling over her, so his knee takes some of the weight, but she’s shorter than him, so instead of pressing his hips to her back, he all but _grinds_ into her ass. 

It’s terrible, it’s _terrible_, especially considering he’s got a hand pressed to the back of her head, keeping her down, and her arm twisted behind her back, so she’s _wiggling_, trying to shake him off of her so she can roll free. 

“Do you yield?” Felix growls close to her ear since he’s leaning over her. Byleth shakes her head, refusing to admit defeat, but Felix merely twists her arm harder behind her back. “Do you _yield?_ ” He repeats, leaning more of his weight into her in the hopes that she’ll stop _wiggling_. 

Thank the goddess herself, Byleth reluctantly relaxes underneath him and taps out. 

Letting go of her wrist and head, Felix readies his retreat, but Byleth snatches his wrist before he can leave. 

“Aren’t you going to teach me how to get out of this?” She wonders, turning her head enough to peer up at him. Her hair is mussed from where he’d had his hand in it, and her cheek is squashed against the mat while she lies in wait. 

She should not be so _attractive_ after being thoroughly defeated.

Felix relents with a weary sigh, maneuvering himself back into place. Hand in her hair, pressing her face into the mat, fingers circled around a deceptively delicate wrist, twisting her arm behind her back, hips pressed into her ass, one knee planted by her side, the other into the back of her knee. 

This is _training_. They are training to fight in a war, and he should _not_ be so turned on by this. He should _not_ be throbbing hard against her ass while trying to teach her how to avoid certain death.

“Considering I’ve got you mostly pinned, you’re going to have to use what little you have to the fullest,” Felix gathers himself enough to begin, hoping she can't hear how throaty his voice has gone. 

He takes note of her free limbs and what little movement she might be able to achieve, calculating angles and physics and the mechanics of the human body. “You can’t get up until you get my hand off of your head, so that’s where you want to start.”

Following instructions to the letter, Byleth uses her free hand to yank Felix’s hand off of the back of her head. By removing one of his pillars of support, she shifts his weight forwards, which rocks his hips into her rear again.

“Good.” Felix grunts, trying not to sound too much like he’s had the breath knocked out of him. “Now that my weight has shifted, you should use that to your advantage. If you push up with your hips,” he directs, wincing as she does exactly that, “See if you can get enough leverage to push me off.” 

Now without Felix’s hand holding her head down, the professor manages to push up and back until she’s on her knees beneath him, her back pressed to his chest. She rocks a couple times, clearly trying to budge him, but he stands firm -- staunchly denying the urge to grind down into warm skin and firm muscles. 

He's actually kind of impressed that she doesn't shy away from the tent in his pants. It comforts him to pretend that somehow she can't feel it -- but she _must_ feel it, since there's only fabric between them. It comforts him more to assume that his desires won't impede her improvement.

“You need to get your foot out beside you for leverage,” Felix directs -- and she tries to do that, but one leg is pinned by his knee, and the other is caged in by his other knee. He coaches her until she shifts her weight far enough back to free herself, to get purchase on the mat and push up up up --

When Felix lands on his back beside her, she turns to him with a grin. Or, at least, she gives him a soft gaze and a tiny upturn of the lips -- which definitely counts, in his book.

“Good?” She confirms with a tilt of the head, her ponytail falling over her shoulder. 

Felix nods. “Good.” 

He's not usually one to praise, but he gives credit where credit is due.

When her lips part, a flash of white teeth announcing a broader smile, Felix thinks, perhaps, he's done well too.

When her gaze wavers, cool green darting down the line of his body where he lies on the mat, lingering over the line of his dick pressed against his pants, still achingly hard, Felix retracts that statement.

_Not good, not good, bad Felix, bad,_

He wants to run. He wants to flee like an animal with his tail tucked in between his legs.

He _hates_ that. Hates that that's his knee jerk reaction, hates that she makes him feel this way.

<strike>She's not the only one that makes him want to retreat, scared, confused</strike>

Instead of running, he stands, gathers what little dignity he has left, along with the pile of his clothing, and forces himself to face Raphael.

"Thank you for sparring with me." He forces out through teeth that are clenched too tight. Equally as stiff, he turns to Byleth. He hopes there's enough rage in his eyes to bury the fear he feels. "Thank you for letting me teach you."

Byleth nods. The only sign that she notices something is off is the crinkle between her brows. 

Raphael isn't fazed. He grins, bright like the sun, claps Felix on the shoulder, and tells him he can ask to spar anytime.

Felix turns on his heel and leaves.

His knees are not weak, his hands are _not_ shaking.

He is not afraid that Byleth will come after him and wiggle the truth from his mouth. He is not afraid that he'll break open in front of her, that every soft and vulnerable piece of him will come to light in the middle of the monastery for all to see.

Steps mechanical, one, two, one, two, he makes it to the big double doors that exit the training grounds, and --

"Felix!"

He steps outside without heeding Byleth's call. His fears are not coming true.

"_Felix!_" Byleth slips through the heavy doors before they close, her jacket draped over her arm, armor halfway clasped around her torso. "Felix, I-"

Felix is all but a cornered animal, flighty and fearful, backed up with nowhere to go but through the one that cornered him. With every sharp edge that he has, he lashes out.

"What do you _want_, professor?" He hisses, clenching his fists tight around his jacket. "Is wasting my free time not enough? Must you even interrupt _Raphael's_ training to monopolize me?" 

Byleth blinks, pausing midstep in his direction. Felix takes her hesitation as surprise and sinks his teeth in deeper.

"I don't know about you, professor, but I'm preparing for the _war_ that's at hand -- not playing around with a new hobby to entertain my students." He finds himself growling, taking a menacing step closer to the woman frozen before him. "I don't have time for these frivolous things of yours." He downright snarls, internally wincing at the damage he _knows_ he's doing. 

Sylvain has always had a silver tongue. He can charm anyone, cheer anyone up, talk his way out of anything.

Felix has always been the opposite. He's just as quick on his feet, but the words that come out of him never miss their mark, never fail to _harm_. His tongue is just as shiny metallic slick, but his words are poisonous. Mercurial.

When she opens her mouth to reply, Felix snaps, speaking before he can censor the words. "Don't make me say it again, or else I’ll-”

“Or else you’ll what_,_ Felix?” 

As cool as steel, as sharp as a blade, Byleth cuts into his threat before he can seal the deal. 

Felix pauses, mouth half open, eyebrows still furrowed -- but the emotion washing over him is less _anger_ and more _confusion_, now. 

Byleth steps to him, chin raised in a challenge. He’s seen her mint green eyes go this cold before, but only ever on the battlefield, under the threat of attack. 

His stomach drops, the damning warmth that had settled low in his gut fleeing in favor of chilling realization.

_He’s certainly attacking her, isn’t he?_

“Or else you’ll _what_, _Felix?_” Byleth repeats, her empty gaze a more frightening punishment than he’d ever thought he could receive. “You’re a smart man, I’m sure you know exactly what it will take to push me away for good. Finish your sentence.”

Her command tears him clean in two.

On one hand, this is exactly what he wants. This is it, this is his chance to lock her out for good, to keep her from opening him up and exposing all the soft parts, all the parts that hurt when he’s prodded, all the parts that ache when she’s gone. 

Because he will lose her, eventually. No one, no matter their level of skill, is invulnerable. He knows that all too well. 

On the other hand, this _hurts_. He wants her, he _wants her_, so badly that it hurts -- and she’s _trying_ to help him, even if she doesn’t know what is wrong. It hurts to push her away, it hurts to isolate himself, it _hurts_ to know he’s hurting her. 

Byleth takes his silence exactly for what it is. Hesitation. Uncertainty. 

“I _need_ you to stop pushing people away like this.” The sentiment is pleading, but her tone is hard, hurt, upset. “Regardless of how strong you are, you _know_ you cannot win a battle on your own. You _must_ rely on other people -- you _will not survive_ if you don’t.” She insists, stepping toe to toe with him, green eyes burning holes through his skull. 

Byleth frowns at him -- frustrated, worried -- giving him the tiniest glimpse into her feelings.

“I’ve never taken you for a man who wishes to die out on the battlefield, and I won’t start now.” She all but snarls up at him, teeth bared, arms crossed. “So get your fucking act together and open up, or prepare to sit on the back lines with the healers for this upcoming battle.”

Outraged, Felix begins to splutter in disbelief, dismayed and offended that she would demote him on the basis of a silly quarrel like this. 

“_Felix Hugo Fraldarius,_” and he wants his name falling from her lips, but not like _this_, “This army has no place for wayward soldiers who only fight for themselves. Not on the battlefield, not in training, and not in the monastery.” His professor stands firm, staring him down. 

Felix is awash with conflicting emotions, tangled and twisted and cluttered and confused. A million paths are open in front of him, but he trips over his own feet before he can decide to take one. Byleth waits for him to say something, to respond at all, but there’s too many things on his mind, too many words on his tongue for him to do anything but stare at her.

After a moment more, he watches the fight drain out of her, watches her posture soften, her chin fall. She doesn't look defeated -- this is _Byleth_ we’re talking about -- but she doesn’t look like she’s going to bite him anymore either. 

“Can I have my shoes back?” She asks next, nodding to the pile of clothes in his hands. 

_Shoes? Her shoes?_

All he can do is stand there while she plucks her boots from his arms. He can’t look at her, can’t feel anything besides the panicked thrum of his heart in his chest, in his throat, in his ears. 

“I don’t fight for myself,” tumbles out of him before he can stop it. “Not anymore.” 

This seems to catch Byleth by surprise, but he doesn’t stick around to answer any clarifying questions.

Felix does a short 180 on his heel, puts on his best scowl, and walks away as quickly as he can.

“Who do you fight for?” His former professor’s voice calls after him.

Felix doesn’t answer. Byleth watches him retreat until he’s out of sight. 

\---

Internally, he’s frazzled beyond functioning, short-circuited into another plane of existence. 

Externally, he’s calm, composed, his signature Resting Bitch Face in full force while he makes a beeline for the bathhouse. 

He had been planning on taking a quick shower and heading back to his room, but once the hot water hit his shoulders, his mind went blank. 

He must look shell-shocked, standing slumped under the steaming spray, staring into empty space. Someone actually does come over and touch his shoulder to check on him, and, somehow, Felix has the wherewithal to respond. He looks up, hums out the verbal equivalent of a question mark, and assures the worried bystander -- Ignatz, he realizes, only after he walks away -- that he’s fine. 

Mechanically, he runs a bar of soap over his chest. The sharp tang of citrus hits his nose, jostling his senses enough to kick his brain back into gear.

_I’m sure you know exactly what it will take to push me away for good. _

He does. 

So far, he’s only deflected her, pushed her away and avoided answering. 

All he has to do is earnestly and honestly reject her. All he has to do is say no. 

Felix sighs, pressing his palms to his face while the warm water rinses the soap off his body. 

She’s right. 

He can’t keep pushing her away. It’s not what he wants. It’s not what _she_ wants -- though she might not want what’s in store once he opens up. 

And once he opens up… then what? Then she tosses him away with her usual blunt approach to things? Then she lets him down gently? Then she accepts him and they get married and live happily ever after?

When he shakes his head to clear it, he realizes his hair is still pulled up in a ponytail.

No wonder Ignatz came over to check on him.

\---

The shower does him good. Clears his head. Warms the freezing pit of his stomach.

It’s not so bad, the confrontation he’d just had with Byleth. It’s not as overwhelming as it originally seemed. 

He’s got two options, just like she said. Push her away for good, or open up. He’s already established that he doesn’t want to push her away for good (keep her at arm's length, nearby, a safe distance away but still present? sure. gone for good? no.), so there’s only one option left.

Open up. Tell her how he feels. But how?

And of course, he’s not the _only_ one that has feelings for Byleth. 

And, unfortunately, Byleth isn’t the only one he has feelings for. 

He’s unceremoniously reminded of this fact as he makes it halfway down the second floor dormitory hallway. Because who else would be standing by his door but Sylvain Jose Gautier -- who looks absolutely _stunning_ for no apparent reason. His dress shirt is stretched tight around his biceps while his arms are folded over his chest, the midnight blue coat cascading from his shoulders to his knees serves to accent just how _tall_ the older man is -- and Felix _just_ got off the emotional rollercoaster, can he have a moment before it takes off again??

Bracing himself for the charming smile and honey-sweet words, Felix forges forwards, into the mouth of the beast he knows best as “attraction.”

But Sylvain never looks up -- not even when Felix scuffs his feet on the floor as he approaches, making his presence known. The redhead just glares at the ground, eyebrows furrowed, mouth pulled into a tense line that really doesn’t suit him at all. He only looks like this after an escapade gone wrong, like the time when Seteth caught him on the way back from town when he was supposed to be --

That’s when it clicks.

It’s a woman. 

And from the looks of it, it’s _bad._

Sylvain _never_ looks so downtrodden after being rejected. He always bounces back with a shrug and a smile, saying something about how she just wasn’t the one and now he’s free to meet new people and all sorts of optimism that Felix had never been able to adopt. 

He’s doing his best not to be annoyed before he knows what’s actually going on, trying to give his oldest friend the benefit of the doubt. Besides, if he came to _Felix_ for comfort, it must be _bad_.

The fact that he has to jostle the taller man out of the staring contest he’s having with the floor is only another sign that this is much more serious than usual. Amber eyes stare through him for a beat before they finally register his presence. Felix lets the last of his irritation dissipate. 

Sometimes, Felix wonders if Sylvain actually knows how _striking_ he is. He _must_, what with all the women falling all over him. He _must_, what with his brilliant red hair, sunshine eyes, perfect teeth, perfect smile, perfect _everything_. 

He tears his gaze away before Sylvain catches onto his shameless ogling, turning to open his door and let the spaced out man inside his room instead. Sylvain totters past the threshold, takes two steps inside, and pauses, hovering, frozen in place.

Ah, shit. 

Felix shuts the door and squeezes past the cavalier in a hurry, tidying up his room before Sylvain can come to his senses. 

He can hear the teasing in the back of his mind -- _is this what you bring ladies back to?_\-- while he shoves his drawers shut and makes his bed, but the all too familiar lilt of Sylvain’s playful taunts never comes. His friend just stands there, hands hanging limply by his sides. His eyes track Felix’s movement around the room, but the weight of his gaze is absent. 

Finally, Felix deems his room sufficiently tidied, sits on the edge of his bed, and moves onto the next order of business: weapon maintenance. 

When he nods for Sylvain to sit, the taller man immediately complies, moving for the first time since he’d entered and plopping down beside him on the bed with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. 

Felix settles into a rhythm, the scrape of whetstone against metal a familiar and comforting sound to his ears.

The weight of Sylvain's head on his shoulder is comfortable too. 

It's nostalgic, reminiscent of a time when things were easier, calmer, safer.

Despite being clutched around a whetstone, his fingers itch to comb through red hair. With all his willpower, he refrains.

When he finally speaks up, Sylvain's voice is uncharacteristically small. 

“I’m trying to smile, but I don’t think I can.” 

Felix can't help but scoff. _Always putting on airs_. “Then don’t.” 

Sylvain scrubs a hand over his face. Lets it fall back into his lap. The movement is heavy. Defeated.

“But I’m just _angry_ underneath.” 

Here is a tone Felix is intensely familiar with. Whether in his own heart or dredged up from the depths Sylvain likes to hide his within, Felix knows this emotion like the back of his hand. 

Anger. Fury. Rage.

But he doesn't linger on those emotions. 

“And under that?” The swordsman follows up, eyes on his blade, ears on Sylvain. 

The only response he gets is the sound of stone against metal. But he knows the answer. 

_Same as you. Something small and vulnerable. Something wounded and sad._

He knows, all too well, that anger is only a defense mechanism, something to distract from the hurt.

It's the same reason he can't bring himself to open up to Byleth.

Only when his blade is deemed sufficiently sharpened does Felix speak up again. 

“What happened?” He asks -- gentle, but not soft -- while he puts his sword away.

“I had tea with Byleth. Promised you and I would have dinner with her tonight.” Sylvain lists off a rather eventful afternoon with little to no emotion in his voice. The answer seems harmless enough.

Until it's not.

“Told her I love her.” 

There’s a loud _click_ as he sheathes his sword to the hilt all at once. 

“You did _what?!_” He can't help but shout, absolutely _floored_ by Sylvain's brazen confession. 

In an uncharacteristic move, Sylvain shrinks back, curling into himself. 

It's not like him to second guess himself, it's unlike him to not stand proud in the face of his decisions, no matter how brash. For his voice, his posture, his smile to be so small… Sylvain is _hurting_.

“Oh, come off it,” his friend laughs, trying and failing to reassure him. “It’s not like she took me seriously. I’m not gonna take her from you.” 

“Take- _take_ her from me?” Felix stammers, trying to decipher what the _fuck_ that means.

_As if Byleth is somehow already Felix's, as if Sylvain has already resigned himself to losing, as if Sylvain's confession was little more than a last-ditch attempt to-_

Sylvain cuts off Felix's wild train of thought when he sits up and turns to the shorter man with a smile. 

It's bright. It's fake.

“Besides, I told her I’d come rattle some sense into you before we all have dinner together tonight!” He announces, taking Felix by the shoulders and facing him completely. “So tonight I’m going to help you confess to Byleth.” 

_Right. He'd mentioned having dinner with Byleth and- what? What??_

_He's going to help him what??? _

Scowling something fierce, Felix pushes the stronger man's hands off of his shoulders. 

_He can't be serious -- he must be trying to change the subject by pushing Felix's buttons, trying to get a reaction out of him._

“Knock it off.” He grunts, shaking his head. He feels wet strands of hair plaster themselves to his neck as his ponytail loosens. One more shake and he's certain the whole thing will fall loose.

“I’m serious! I wanna help you!” Sylvain insists -- and Felix honestly can't tell if he's being genuine or not.

“_Why_.”

Immediately, auburn brows pull low over amber eyes, confusion clouding the fellow noble's face. “Because I care about you?” 

_That_ sounds too hesitant to be genuine. Felix's frown deepens into a scowl. That _hurts._

The sudden panic in Sylvain's eyes placates the shorter man's fury, if only a little.

Sylvain tries again. “Because that’s what friends do? Help each other?" He must deem Felix's frown an appropriate shade of calmed, because he forges forward with his usual incessant chatter shortly afterwards. 

_What does he think he’s doing, setting Felix up with Byleth? Setting Felix, his best friend, up with Byleth, the woman he loves? _

_Why? _

"Especially when said friend has the emotional intelligence of a brick and definitely has a chance at snagging an incredible, beautiful, _powerful_-”

_He sounds cheery, but his eyes are so_ sad_. Sylvain Jose Gautier, skirt-chaser extraordinaire, is finally, truly in love with someone, and he’s passing them off to Felix? _

_Why?_

“_Stop_ it,” Felix pleads -- and he _hates_ that his voice breaks, but honestly, what the _fuck?_ “Why would you _do_ that to yourself?”

The _smile_ that crosses Sylvain’s face strikes a pang of misery straight through Felix’s chest. 

“After everything I’ve fucked up?” Sylvain huffs out a laugh that’s entirely fake. “Maybe I deserve to suffer.”

_So this is his game, huh? Playing games with women to punish himself? Because…? Because he doesn’t think he deserves to be loved?_

Felix can’t help the sneer that pulls at his mouth, his whole face twisting up as if he’s just bitten into a lemon. “I won’t help you destroy yourself.” His voice drops, low and menacing. He will not be moved on this matter.

Not that that stops Sylvain from mumbling “_why not?_” like a petulant child. 

_Idiot._

Internally, he’s glad the answer isn’t too obvious.

Externally, he fucks himself over. 

“Because I care about you?” The sentiment spills out of him before he can stop it, and Sylvain’s gaze darts up to meet his, brows arched in honest surprise. 

_Of course he’s surprised. What indication has Felix given so far to even insinuate that he cares for him? Or Byleth, for that matter?_

When his cheeks flush with heat, Felix knows it’s not from anger with himself. (It’s from embarrassment, from the honest surprise in Sylvain’s eyes, from the way he leans closer, closer, closer-)

But Sylvain’s head pitches past him, falling with a thump onto the swordsman’s shoulder. And of all the things Felix was expecting him to say, “_Don’t get my hopes up,_” is not one of them. 

He can’t… _help_ himself. Especially not with the barest brush of lips against his neck. All of his willpower is not enough to stop him from threading a hand into fiery red hair, pressing the pads of his fingers into Sylvain’s scalp, encouraging him closer, closer, _closer_.

Indeed, he _does_ scoot closer, curling around the shorter man with a heavy sigh. 

Maybe Felix has finally gone off the rails -- too many loop de loops on the emotional rollercoaster, today -- but he _swears_ Sylvain sets him on fire. Flaming hair, warm eyes, big hands hovering above his waist that seem to radiate heat, hot breath against his neck -- Felix is _melting_. 

He may never make it to dinner with Byleth, at this rate. 

“Who says I don’t mean it?” 

Yep. He’s not gonna make it. 

Especially when Sylvain jolts, rustling against his shoulder as he looks up just when Felix looks down. The movement puts them nose to nose, cheek to cheek, close enough to feel the hot puff of breath wash over his lips. Felix can only swim in pools of amber, involuntarily tightening his grip on Sylvain’s hair. 

He can't _see_ Sylvain’s lips, which makes the feather-light whisper of skin against skin even _more_ tantalizing as the cavalier whispers something inaudible into the space between them. 

Felix fishes out the dredges of his voice enough to call for his friend’s attention, and after a repeat call of his name doesn’t move either of them an inch, he has to take matters into his own hands. 

Pushing Sylvain off of him is much more difficult than he expected it to be. His entire body is heavy as he stands, as if some invisible weight rests on his shoulders.

_C’mon, Felix, c’mon!_

“Get up.” He demands of the man staring up at him like a lost child. “_Get up!!_” The repeated demand gets just as lackluster a response, and Felix has to physically pull the taller man to his feet so he can continue being indignant to his face. “Face me as your rival. Meet me as your equal.” 

He announces his intentions for the evening, gesticulates wildly, states his case, and waits for Sylvain’s response.

Sylvain does not respond. 

He just. Stares at Felix. 

Frustrated, Felix gives up entirely on discussing any serious matters with the empty stare in front of him. 

“Can you still braid?” He snaps, pressing his fists into his hips. Thankfully, finally, Sylvain responds.

“Huh?” 

_Goddess, help him. _

“Can you still _braid,_ blockhead? Y’know, like _hair?_” He clarifies, squinting at the idiot in front of him. 

Sylvain’s confused, “Of course I can,” makes Felix feel like an idiot. _Of course he can. He probably uses the skill to woo women all the time._

He’s going to explode. He’s either going to kill Sylvain or kiss him -- and he doesn’t know which will be worse.

Instead, he heads to his closet, addressing his first task of the night. 

If he’s to have dinner with his love interest and rival (and love interest), he will not be outdressed by Sylvain.

And surely, changing in front of his best friend who he may want to kiss (or kill, the jury’s still out) will have no negative consequences. Surely. 

As soon as he pulls his shirt off, he feels eyes on his back. The attention makes sifting through his clothes exponentially more difficult. 

Truthfully, he’s not _bad_ with fashion. Even noblemen must know how to dress properly -- and while Felix has never cared much for appearances, he at least knows _how_ to appear nice. 

But Sylvain has much more experience in that department, and when the swordsman can’t choose between two cloaks, he has no choice but to call for the redhead’s help. 

Truly, he’s expecting teasing, but Sylvain merely hovers behind him, radiating heat like a furnace even through his neatly pressed shirt. 

Truly, he’s not expecting the low, “I think you look good in anything,” that rumbles out of the lanceman, and the only thing he can do (besides fight down a pleased shudder) is grind out an annoyed _tch_ in response. Luckily, instead of retreating, Sylvain laughs.

Felix tries not to think about how many conflicting signals he gives off on a daily basis. Nor does he think about how he expects people to take all his signs of “no” for “yes.” It’s a problem for later.

Sylvain advises him on color choice and Felix decides from there, throwing his shirt over his shoulder for the taller man to unbutton while Felix takes care of his pants. 

And if he felt eyes on his back when he pulled his shirt off, he _certainly_ feels eyes on his ass when he shucks his pants off. He shoots a glare over his shoulder, but Sylvain merely grins and salutes -- and the _yessir_ that falls from his lips makes Felix flush an unbearable shade of red. 

_What he wouldn’t give to have Sylvain compliant and docile underneath him, that chipper “yessir” tinted three or four shades darker with desire._

Shaking inappropriate thoughts away before they can tent his nice pants, Felix turns and reaches for his dress shirt -- and is promptly batted away by hands calloused from years of wielding weapons. 

“What are you doing?” Is the first thing he manages to get out through the sudden tightness in his throat. Sylvain hums a little tune under his breath while he pulls the sleeves over Felix’s arms, lighting trails of fire down his wrists where his fingers skate across pale skin. 

What he gets is some bullshit explanation about how dress shirts are supposed to be done up by an accompanying party because the buttons are on the side of most people’s non-dominant hand. Felix’s insistence that he is ambidextrous earns him nothing more than two broad palms smoothing over the planes of his chest. 

He. Is not turned on by this. He’s not. He will not be. There is no twinge of arousal in his stomach, no lurching of his heartbeat, no tingling of his skin. None at all. 

Not even when Sylvain kneels in front of him, eye level with his navel, and begins working his way up the fastenings of the fancy shirt. 

Surely, he does not linger on every button, letting his knuckles brush the skin of his abdomen with every completed task. Surely, that’s not a shiver that runs down his spine when he touches the hollow of Felix’s throat. 

Sylvain’s confirmation of “All the way up?” barely registers in the swordsman’s ears, but Felix nods nonetheless. He likes the way he looks in high collars, always has. 

Sunshine eyes are dark with… with _something_, Sylvain’s pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the rust tint of his iris. He stands, towering over his childhood friend, and the two merely stare at each other for a tense moment. 

_How on_ earth _is he supposed to have dinner with this man_ and _Byleth??_

He supposes he’ll have to make it there to find out -- and there’s one more thing he needs done before they leave. 

“Braid my hair.” 

He leaves no room for argument -- as if Sylvain was going to refuse in the first place. 

Actually, Sylvain used to braid his hair all the time. It’s where he _learned_ to braid, tangled in locks of ink-black hair until the pattern made sense. Felix assumes he started refusing the redhead’s requests to practice on his head around the time he realized his love for his childhood accomplice was by no means _friendly_. 

When Sylvain runs a hand through his hair -- when did his ponytail fall out?? where is his hair tie? _Goddammit, that’s the fifth one this month!_\-- tugging gently to free the bits that tangle around his fingers, it all comes rushing back to Felix in a blur of memory and sensation. 

He remembers, with awful clarity, the deliciously firm tug on a fistful of his hair that had snapped his head back, dropped his jaw, and worked loose a _moan_ from the parts of him he’d been desperately trying to hide away. Sylvain had apologized over and over, convinced he’d hurt his younger friend, and Felix had been forced to grimace and go along with it, making something up about having a sensitive scalp. Or something. 

To this day, Sylvain is always gentle with his hair, and that’s no exception for the hands that partition midnight locks out into threes, gathering and weaving and tucking until he cordons off the end with the tie Felix had assumed was lost forever to the abyss of his bedsheets. 

And for the goddess knows how many-eth time that night, they just stand there and stare at each other, breathing in each other’s air. 

Sylvain’s hands wander from the ponytail that rests on the swordsman’s shoulder, over his collarbone, up his throat, dragging gently across his jaw until he grips Felix’s chin in between his fingers. 

Felix can’t help but look up, and he’s immediately snared in pools of sweet honey. Damn Sylvain and his pretty eyes. Damn him and his big, calloused hands. Damn him and the tongue that runs over his lip, drawing Felix’s gaze to plush, waiting lips. 

And wouldn’t you know it, like a dream come true, Sylvain bends to meet him, bangs falling across his face as he tilts his head _just so_.

And, like a man spiraling out of control, Felix squashes his hand to the taller man’s face, stopping him in his tracks. 

_He can’t. _

_He can’t kiss Sylvain. _

_Not now, not with Byleth expecting them, not when they’re planning to confess to their shared love interest tonight._

Lips once slack with the intent to caress now pull into a tight line against his palm, the older man confused and probably irritated by Felix’s rejection. 

If Sylvain kisses him -- if he kisses Sylvain -- he won’t leave this room for a long while yet. Possibly until morning. 

He needs to go to this dinner. He needs to fix things between him and Byleth, needs to hear her decision between him or Sylvain, needs clarity, needs closure -- and this is as close to a perfect opportunity as he’s going to get. 

Luckily, Sylvain doesn’t protest when Felix insists they leave. 

“I’m sure the professor is waiting for us.” Felix sighs, letting his hand drop to his side. 

Somehow, though Sylvain is nearly half a foot taller than him, he keeps pace with him until they catch sight of Byleth in the dining hall. 

And as soon as he lays eyes on his professor, Felix stops in his tracks. 

The tiny gasp that tears from the man next to him tells him that Sylvain probably comes to the same realization as him.

They’re _fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally running the Blue Lions route, and lemme tell you... Felix's supports give me feelings... Sylvain's do too... waaaaaaaa


	3. Byleth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so everyone's in love with you, you're responsible for everyone's lives, and (as is your luck) two of your former students have snagged your heart.
> 
> Go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everybody kept asking if we'd get a Byleth perspective chapter and honestly I hadn't planned on it, but then this worked out sO perfectly and... here you go
> 
> Also, @ Claude and Ignatz and Ashe and all my other Byleth ships that I tear apart in this chapter: I'm so sorry

Byleth Eisner is no fool. 

She may have a lot to catch up on, having been asleep for five years, but she’s a quick study. 

There’s a lot of sadness in the monastery now. 

She can see it in all the students that were once Black Eagles, in the way their smiles waver when they recall the country they’re essentially exiled from. She can see it in Edelgard’s eyes when she talks about the fate of the Empire, about a fate that’s been ripped out of her hands by the Prime Minister himself. 

She can hear it in all the students that were once Golden Deer, in the false brightness of their tones when they discuss letters from home, all too aware of the lingering threat of invasion and war that lurks on their doorsteps and threatens their families. She can hear it in Claude’s voice when he mumbles “_Teach,_” and drops his forehead onto her shoulder, as if the weight of the entire Alliance rests heavy on him and him alone.

She can feel it with all the students that were once Blue Lions, in the way they tense up when the subject of the church and state surfaces in conversation, all eyes nervously darting over to their feral king -- who’s always liable to start a fight with Edelgard over that particular subject. She can feel it in the set of Dimitri’s jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the fire in his eyes (eye?), a primal rage winning out over his better sensibilities at the mere reminder of the misfortune that’s befallen his Kingdom.

Carefully, she has to tread _carefully_ around the subject of war. Everyone has their breaking point, and as Rhea’s <strike>unwilling</strike> appointed successor, Byleth is too close to the trigger not to watch her step when she speaks with most of her students. 

Except they’re not her students anymore. 

“Professor!” 

On instinct, Byleth turns towards the shout. 

They may not be enrolled in the Officer’s Academy anymore, but Byleth’s position still stands. She is still responsible for their lives, she still decides their futures -- every step they take is by her command, and she _must not lose them._

Soldiers. 

She hates that it’s true, but they are her soldiers. 

“Professor? Are you in there?” 

With a couple blinks, Byleth pulls herself back into the present moment. 

Edelgard waits for acknowledgement, hovering nearby until Byleth nods in her direction. Quickly, she falls in step with her professor (commander?) and smiles, bright and warm.

“Drifting off during the day, now?” She teases, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Are you getting enough sleep?” 

Edelgard is concerned for her.

An unfamiliar warmth blooms in Byleth’s chest. 

(She’s not used to feeling much of anything at _all_, but after fusing with Sothis, the world has been just a little bit brighter.)

“I’ve been getting enough.” Byleth returns, honest and concise. “There’s much to do.” 

Edelgard’s smile fades. “Take care of yourself, professor.” She insists, reaching out to press a reassuring touch into the other woman's shoulder while they walk. After a beat, something in her gaze warms, and her smile returns. “We can’t win this without our best tactician, after all!” 

The sentiment is light-hearted, meant to encourage and reassure. 

She tries to take it that way, but when Edelgard launches straight into planning for their next major skirmish, the warmth in her chest fades away. 

Byleth is no fool. 

Edelgard, Claude, and Dimitri are no different from each other. They all (more or less) have the same goal. They all have entire countries watching their every move, relying upon their every decision, affected by every outcome of their actions. 

They’re all close with Byleth, close enough that Byleth knows them well enough to know that they all love her very much. 

She loves them too. She loves them with her whole, unbeating heart. More than they could know. 

She knows them well enough to know that they all _need_ her for something -- and they will only have time to love her after their goals have been achieved.

When they look at her, they see what she will be one day (an archbishop, a queen, a goddess), they see her for what she will be _for them_ (a commander, a tactician, a weapon). When they look at her, they see her _use_. 

She knows that’s to be expected -- especially considering the power she holds, both by merit of her Crest and merit of her name. 

It makes truly falling in love with them in return a difficult feat. 

Now, it’s not as if she’s short on _people in love with her_, considering the devotion of her students (soldiers?), considering how each of them pay attention to her in their own special way. 

But, much like their House Leaders, many of them don’t love her as she _is_. 

If the war ended, and she left everything behind to go back to working as a mercenary, many of her students, though they love her dearly, would not come with her. 

Byleth is not one for politics and titles and nobility. Ferdinand, Hubert, and Petra -- and probably Lorenz and Dedue -- would not follow her into a life of anonymity. All of them have a strong sense of duty, strong ties to their country and fellow political leaders, ties that she doubts they could sever just to humor her. (Not that she would want them to, anyways.)

Byleth is a creature of action, of crossing swords and putting a stop to injustice with the power of her own hands. Dorothea, Lindhart, and Marianne would not follow her into a life of conflict. They’ve seen too much death, mended too many wounds, inflicted too many more. She’s not sure she could live a life without conflict -- and it would be cruel to ask them to follow her on that path. (Not that she would want them to, anyways.)

Byleth is not picky about what’s beneath her lover’s clothes. Some of her students love her, but not like _that_. Leonie, Hilda, Annette, Bernadetta, Ingrid, Lysithea -- and many more of the women she’s met, noble and common alike -- _love_ her, but not like _that_. 

Byleth loves her students, but she doesn’t love _all of them_ like _that_. Yes, she can imagine lying in bed with Ignatz or Ashe or Mercedes or Raphael or Caspar or -- you get the point. But it would be… weird. She loves them like she would love a sibling, if she had one. (Perhaps it is best that she does not.) 

Which leaves. Her problem children. (Soldiers? Adults? Lords?)

Felix and Sylvain. 

Byleth does not think of Felix nor Sylvain as siblings. Nor would she believe (for even a _second_ ) that neither of them love her like _that_. 

(It’s more obvious with Sylvain -- mostly because he doesn’t hide it, thinking she’ll take it as his usual womanizing schemes -- but still, as much as he tries to be subtle about them, Felix’s searing glances and flushed cheeks tell her all she needs to know.)

If she dropped everything, all her titles, all her status, all comforts in life, just to be a merc for hire again, Felix and Sylvain would be beside her without a moment’s hesitation. Their loyalty to the nobility registers shockingly low on the scale -- much to their House Leader’s dismay, at times -- and neither of them have a problem with battle (Felix actively _seeks_ it, for the goddess’ sake).

It can't be avoided that when they see her, they see her use, they see how she can benefit them -- why else would they hang around her, if they didn’t _like_ her for any reason at all? 

But when she talks to them, the warmth in her chest is never blown out by duty or destiny or the fate of Fodlan and what she must do to ensure its safety. 

_Especially_ now that she’s merged with Sothis, now that she’s _feeling_ on a level she’s never quite felt before… those two make the warmth in her chest burn stronger.

To Felix and Sylvain, she is simply _Byleth_. That is all they see. That is who they love.

Not that either of them would ever admit that they’re actually in love with her, though. 

Which is… disheartening, to say the least. 

She is no fool. She _knows_ they do. 

She can see it, hear it, feel it in every passing glance, every conversation, every lingering touch. 

When Felix watches her from afar, when he lets her in on a joke, casually teases her, no bite to his bark… when he presses close while they spar, hovers over her when one of them yields, loathe to move away -- Byleth _knows_.

When Sylvain’s gaze drifts away from his date of the month (week? day?) to follow her, when he gifts her with compliments too soft not to be sincere, when he grabs her hand and brushes his lips against her knuckles, drapes an arm across her shoulders like it’s no big deal -- Byleth _knows_. 

Unfortunately, she has a sneaking suspicion that she’s _too good_ at concealing her emotions. 

She doesn’t think Felix _sees_ the way her gaze lingers on the nape of his neck, doesn’t think he knows just how many times she stops in to watch him spar. She’s not certain he hears the way her voice drops in surprise when he blesses her with a compliment, not certain he notices the goosebumps that raise in the wake of his breath hot against her skin when (and if) he manages to pin her while they spar. 

She doesn’t think Sylvain _sees_ her eyes trace the soft curl of his lips, doesn’t think he knows she can tell if he’s lying just from the look in his eyes. She’s not certain he hears the short gasp that tears from her when he accidentally tickles her neck, she’s not certain he’s aware of the heat that pools low in her gut when he strips off his armor, revealing a shirt pulled tight around muscles that she’s _still_ getting used to seeing. 

If they _did_ notice, then maybe something positive would happen. 

Instead, she watches the two of them spiral out of control.

Felix pushes her away, refuses to speak to her -- won’t even _look_ at her. Avoiding eye contact is not _unusual_ for the swordsman, but not looking at her at _all?_

Meanwhile, ever the yin to Felix's yang, Sylvain ramps up the flirting and teasing and caressing. It happens so often now that Ingrid’s stopped reprimanding him, and the line between the things he means and the things he doesn’t is beginning to blur. 

Byleth is. Worried. 

The two are beginning to push the boundary that delineates the difference between appreciating the benefits of being with her and _using _her. 

If she lets this go for too long, lets this go too far, she will be a tool for Felix to hone his blade -- something he will tire of, eventually -- and a tool for Sylvain to break himself down -- something that will destroy him, eventually. 

That’s why she relentlessly pursues Felix, regardless of the way he bares sharp teeth and snaps when she gets too close. That’s why she humors Sylvain’s honey-laced fictions and sweet lies, regardless of how nice they make her feel. 

Byleth Eisner is no fool.

But she is by no means _perfect_.

She chases after Felix and she pushes him too far. 

She humors Sylvain’s lies and she dismisses the truth.

In all honesty, she doubts they will come to dinner now. Sylvain may have promised that he would drag Felix along with him, that they would all sit and chat together, but… after her series of royal fuck-ups, the prospects of such an event look bleak.

She so misses the meals they used to share, back when they weren’t surviving off of rationed ingredients, back when her request would have them in the seat across from her without fail. 

“Professor,” 

Used to the call by now, she turns on instinct towards the voice. Ingrid stands rigid in front of her, back straight, shoulders stiff, fingers laced together in front of her. 

“Might you be able to tell me why Felix just took a very nicely dressed Sylvain into his room and shut the door?” She hazards, one blonde eyebrow lifting just a hint higher than the other.

Byleth mulls this over, pressing a fist into her cheek. 

Well, Sylvain certainly stayed true to his word, regardless of the mood he had been in after leaving their teatime. 

Whether they would actually show… 

She keeps the defeated sigh she wants to let loose to herself. No use in letting it out in front of Ingrid -- she’ll only worry.

“They’re fine. Probably.” Byleth assures the straightlaced knight. Ingrid’s brow only twitches a little in response. “Leave them to it. You know how they are.”

If _anyone_ knows “how they are,” it’s Ingrid. 

Ingrid lets out a breath it looks like she’d been holding. “Alright. Good.” She hums, running her fingers through her bangs. “I was just… worried.” _As usual,_ Byleth notes. “Because Sylvain mentioned having tea with you when we passed in the hall earlier, and he got all dressed up -- and then later he was all huffy, barrelling through the monastery like he was on a mission or something,” she rambles on, fingers pressed to her chin while she thinks aloud. “Y’know, professor, I’m really starting to think he might be _serious_ about all this flirting with you recently -- you’re _sure_ you don’t want me to talk to him?”

Byleth levels a blank stare on her fretting student (former? student?) until Ingrid stops talking.

“You’re right,” Ingrid corrects herself, grimacing at the thought. “Talking to him would not help.”

Byleth gets approximately two more moments of silence before Ingrid goes off again. 

“Felix has been acting kinda weird too -- have you noticed, professor?” Blonde eyebrows knit tight over green eyes. “He hasn’t been this… _prickly_ in a while. I thought it was because of Sylvain, but he just let him into his room like it was no big deal, no snide remarks or anything -- so it must be Dimitri, I guess.”

“Surely,” Byleth nods, but she’s not listening anymore. “Ingrid, do you know where Dorothea is?” 

Ingrid does not know where Dorothea is. Luckily, she gets the point, blushing sheepishly and apologizing for fretting before waving goodbye and heading off. 

Byleth finds Dorothea by the pier. 

“Professor!” The ever-so-familiar greeting rings pleasantly in Byleth’s ears. “Here to fish? Planning to wind down before dinner?” 

Byleth shakes her head. “I need your help. Something only you can do.” 

Dorothea is _so _pretty when she smiles. Byleth wishes the war didn’t weigh so heavily on the corners of her mouth. “What is it?” 

Silence, for a moment. Byleth collects her thoughts. 

“How would one best go about dressing to impress without making their intentions too obvious?” 

What with the way Dorothea’s smile pulls wide, Byleth thinks she’s definitely come to the right person. 

\---

Considering she walks through the dining hall without a single glance thrown her way, Byleth thinks Dorothea’s done a good job. 

(Claude does let out a low whistle upon catching sight of her, but it’s only after she nearly runs into him. She presses a coy finger to her lips, and the archer gets the memo immediately, throwing her a wink before turning away.)

The kohl Dorothea lined her eyes with is subtle, only noticeable from a couple feet away. Byleth also let her fashion expert dust her cheeks with rouge -- _only a pat!_ Dorothea had promised -- so she’s aware she looks a little more _alive_ than usual. 

Wearing this particular dress had been Byleth’s original intention -- since it bears the same color and neckline as the armor she usually wears, and the hem stops not far below where her shorts usually rest, not _too _noticeable of a difference -- but it was Dorothea’s brilliant idea for Byleth to wear her usual coat, avoiding any further suspicion. The lace tights and black boots matched the dress, and Byleth wanted to stay as far under the radar as possible, so those stayed too. 

Considering the outfit Sylvain wore to tea, his pit stop at Felix’s room, and the two’s incessant competition, she’s pretty sure they’ll _both_ be dressed to the nines.

She won’t be outmatched by them either -- hence, the dress. Not to mention, she won’t be _upset_ if they can’t take their eyes off of her. Not at all.

It’s just that… Sylvain and Felix (_definitely_ Sylvain, less so Felix) can get away with dressing up for no apparent reason. Byleth does not go a day without everyone’s eyes on her -- and it’s not that she doesn’t _want_ this dinner to be a date, but if all three of them are dressed to the nines, the entire monastery will jump to conclusions before any of them can get a word in edgewise.

Byleth will not force anything -- especially without knowing for _sure_ whether or not either of the two boys (men -- _men_, they’re _men,_ now) have objections to that particular label.

_A date. Dating_.

It’s all entirely too… foreign, to her. 

She’s never _dated_. _Fucked_, certainly, but _dating_… _commitment_… 

Unconsciously, Byleth fiddles with the ring her father gave her. She’s kept it on her person ever since he died.

_“One day, I want you to give this ring to someone you love.”_

Someone. One. 

Byleth squeezes the ring until it bites into the flesh of her palm. 

Sylvain catches her eye from across the dining hall and waves. Felix, surprisingly, isn’t scowling while he stands next to the cavalier.

_Someone you love._

The fire within her sparks and glows brighter, spreading a comfortable warmth through her chest.

So it begins.

\---

To her relief, she was right to err on the fancy side for their dinner tonight. 

She’d already had the opportunity to drink in the sight of Sylvain in that coat -- pretty much unchecked -- but now _Felix_ has risen to the occasion as well, ink-black hair twisted into a glossy braid that twists around his head and rests gently atop his shoulder, and -- 

At least Byleth’s eyes will feast well tonight.

\---

The two men take up the space on either side of her as they head to the line for food, falling into step with her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. While her students usually keep a respectful distance while they talk, Sylvain and Felix are plastered to her side tonight, a hair’s breadth away from brushing up against her as they walk. 

Her shoulders are on a near-constant collision course with fabric warmed by the soft skin beneath, bumping against Felix’s bicep and Sylvain’s chest with every step. 

What she wouldn’t give to get the clothing out of the way, to see if what lies beneath is truly what she expects it to be, or if it’s something entirely different. What she wouldn’t give to _know_ them -- either of them -- solely by the touch of her hands. 

She’s long since stopped chastising herself for having… less than pure thoughts about her former students. The thoughts are far too intrusive and far too frequent to ignore, and she enjoys them too much to be laden with guilt over the influence of her _former_ position. 

_They are not her students anymore. They are boys no longer._

As they find an open table in the crowded dining hall, Felix and Sylvain take up spots on the bench across from her -- just as the three of them would sit five years prior. 

_They are not her students anymore._

Sylvain shrugs off his cloak, draping it over the bench beside him, and works open the first few buttons of his dress shirt. “Food’s warm, the fire’s blazing,” he lists as the third button he undoes reveals collarbones shining with sweat, almost grumbling under his breath, “I’m burning up over here!” 

Tearing her gaze away from the smooth column of his throat, Byleth turns her attention to Felix just in time to see him eye the redhead with an odd mixture of disdain and delight. The swordsman settles on disdain, eyebrows scrunching together while his arms cross over his chest. Byleth gives up entirely and turns her attention to her meal, certain that the shorter man will notice if she keeps staring at his biceps. 

_They are boys no longer._

“So, professor,” Felix pipes up, his frown easing as he turns to face her. “What’s the occasion?” 

When red eyes rove over her figure, brimming with barely restrained desire, she remembers with sudden clarity the effort she put into her appearance tonight. 

“Yeah,” Sylvain echoes. “Between you and our meal tonight, I’m not sure which one looks more delectable,” the cavalier all but _purrs_, pinning the professor with a pleased grin. 

Honey gold eyes gleam with satisfaction, his gaze never wavering -- even when Felix groans and smacks his arm. Byleth holds his stare, though she takes it less as a challenge and more as an opportunity to search his gaze, see what she can find within the careful air of separation he puts on as a front. 

She finds only honesty, despite the sugar-sweet words. He’s not lying. 

“I got wind that two of my former Blue Lions had a dorm room rendezvous before they came to dinner with me,” she dropped the information as if it were harmless, biting back a smile. “I figured, what with how Sylvain was already dressed and your tendency to compete, that I wouldn’t be outmatched.”

The flush that graces both of the men’s cheeks takes her by surprise. When they exchange glances, something surreptitious and heated, heavy resignation sinks deep into Byleth’s chest. 

Byleth is no fool.

She knows there is _something_ between them -- a low burning fire that has never been properly attended to, a tension that coils tighter but never resolves -- _something _that makes hurt and regret well up in their eyes whenever she dares to prod at the subject. 

She wonders if… somehow… her missteps have not only pushed them away from her, but into each other. If that _is_ the case, then… well, she only wants what’s best for her students (soldiers? friends?) in the end. Right?

While the tinge of misery scatters her thoughts, she nearly misses Sylvain turn in his seat, his attention stuck fast to the man sitting next to him. 

“Felix needed my help,” the cavalier’s voice drops low as he reaches out, fingers trailing over woven strands of hair. “I’m the only one of us that can braid.” 

To Byleth’s ultimate surprise, Felix doesn't deny nor correct any of Sylvain’s account. He just sits there, clutching his utensils like he’s forgotten how to move. 

When Sylvain tucks a loose strand of hair behind Felix’s ear, Byleth feels just as stricken, the realization hitting her like the swing of an axe. 

She _knows_ that smile. He’s _flirting _with Felix.

All at once, she’s filled with emotion -- none of them useful, all of them conflicting. 

Long ago, she might have shut down under the sudden wave of sensation, too removed from feeling to properly handle all of these reactions at one time. But she’s not the Ashen Demon anymore. 

Instead, she carefully mulls over her options as she chews another bite of food, sifting through reactions and outcomes until she finds the right one. 

“You did a wonderful job,” she praises Sylvain with a nod in his direction before settling a smoldering gaze on the man beside him. “Felix looks absolutely charming.” 

The swordsman’s cheeks tinge the slightest pink, ruby eyes glittering as they dart away from her stare. _Bingo._

Then -- as seems to be the theme, today -- Sylvain surprises her again.

“_Doesn’t he?_” The agreement rushes out of Sylvain like a pleased sigh. Felix flushes a deeper red, pinned under the heated stares of his dining partners -- and Byleth watches in stunned silence as a new path opens up in front of her. 

Sylvain isn’t _competing_ with her. He’s _agreeing _with her, adding onto her praise, taking the fire she’s lit and stoking it until the flames lick at poor Felix’s cheeks. He’s not upset with her at all.

_Neither is Felix._

And the more Sylvain teases the shorter man, the more Byleth can’t help but join in, poking and prodding at the younger man until he’s snapping back with insults and jabs -- words that just don’t hit as hard when he’s as red in the face as he is. 

“Have you ever considered reclassing as a Dancer?” Byleth queries, tone and expression absolutely solemn, giving nothing away. “You’ve got the magic skill for it… and the looks,” she tacks onto the end, quirking an eyebrow in his direction. 

Felix’s jaw drops -- Sylvain’s does too, total surprise written over their faces. 

Sylvain cracks first.

“Oh- oh, _goddess above_, _Professor!!_ ” He wheezes, muffling his laughter in his hands. “You can’t- you can’t _do _that to me with a straight face!” He insists, shoulders shaking in time to his giggles. The glimpses of the smile she sees between his fingers sparks something joyful in her heart. 

Of course, Felix pouts, vexed by his friend’s amusement. “I don’t know what you find so comedic about this,” he huffs, vengefully stabbing into his meal. “I would make a wonderful Dancer, outfit and all. My skill with a sword will not be impeded by some ribbons and a skirt.”

Their professor opens her mouth to respond, but Felix gives a start, eyebrows furrowed in sudden concern. 

“Not that I want to reclass as a Dancer,” he insists, frantic. 

Byleth raises a hand to stop him before he can freak out any further. “I’m content with your classification right now.” Her reassurance allows him to sink back into his seat, but he tenses again when she pauses to reconsider. “However… I believe we discussed an area of discontent earlier today -- concerning your priorities on the battlefield.” 

Sylvain’s laughter dies off immediately, and Felix shifts in his seat when his friend looks to him with concern. The flighty look in those crimson eyes makes Byleth wonder if she’s going to lose the swordsman before they can make any progress tonight. 

A deep, careful breath washes the tension out of the shorter man’s shoulders. Perhaps he’s tired of running away from the subject.

“You wanted to know who I fight for.” Felix remembers aloud, watching her from beneath his eyelashes. “I’m afraid I lied to you, earlier today.” He admits, looking back down to his plate. “I do fight for myself.” 

The warmth in her chest ices over, cold unease sinking deep into her heart. _As I feared…_

“Felix--” Sylvain complains -- the sound nearly _pleading_, for some reason -- but Felix waves him off with a hissed _let me finish!_

The swordsman straightens his shoulders, brow furrowed, lips pressed into an insistent line -- looking ever the part of a determined soldier reporting to their commander. “I fight to better myself, to always improve, so I can cut through the battlefield and come out victorious.” He informs her, serious and sharp, battle-hardened. 

_She wishes it wasn’t this way, that they didn’t have to be so formal. She wishes to see Felix exist like he does when Sylvain ropes him into some outlandish scheme, the two of them giggling to themselves, soft around the edges,_

“Victory is what matters. The strong don’t lose.” Felix insists, hands curled into fists where they lie atop the table. “And I’m… I’m afraid to lose. I’ve lost too much.” His hands shake for a fraction of a second, but he curls his fingers tighter, masking the tell. “If I fight to win, if I keep getting stronger, I can’t lose anything.” 

The chatter of the cafeteria around them nearly drowns out the quiet, “or anyone,” that falls from the swordsman’s lips. Gently. Soft.

“Indeed, it’s a selfish reason -- punish me if you must, but --” 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sylvain squeeze Felix’s shoulder. Felix stops talking, mouth left half-open, rendered completely silent -- especially after Byleth reaches across the table to curl her hand around his. 

“Thank you. I appreciate your honesty.” She murmurs, letting the ghost of a smile slip through. 

Sometimes Felix frustrates her to the point of madness, to the point where she kinda wants to strangle him, wrestle him into submission -- force him to say what he means, not what he thinks will protect him. But now, with him so stiff and uncertain in front of her, red eyes haunted by old memories and present fears, she wants to be gentle with him, wants to run her thumb over his knuckles until he relaxes, wants to cradle his face in her hands and --

“Aw, _Felix_, you really _do_ care about us,” the drawl of Sylvain’s teasing rips into her thoughts, and the sharp smile that stretches his lips makes him look like the cat that finally caught the canary. 

Ever unaffected by the older man’s taunts, Felix huffs out a short _hmph_ and turns his attention back to his meal, shrugging off the comforting touches from the people surrounding him for good measure. “‘Course I do.” He grumbles around his final mouthful of food, cheeks heating under their stares. “I’d be bored as hell without you two.” 

The three of them finish their meals with gusto (well, the two of them, since Felix muffled his affections with his final bites), and talk about literally anything other than what Byleth had planned to discuss during dinner. 

She feels the opportunity slipping out of her grasp when they all stand to leave and regroup by one of the doors that lead outside to fresh air. Before they can bid her goodnight and turn away, she takes matters into her own hands and reaches out, tangling her fingers in their coats. 

Neither of the men brush her off. They merely wait, two pairs of eyes full of intrigue boring into her.

Waiting. 

And if she’s lucky, _wanting_.

“I owe you two an apology.” Their professor begins, holding their stares. “I’ve not been very considerate of your feelings, as of late. I’ve pushed you too hard,” she says to Felix before turning to Sylvain, “And I’ve brushed you off. I had no intention to hurt you, but I handled the situation incorrectly regardless. I apologize.” 

She releases them only to press a fist to her chest as she bows -- escaping the sudden clarity in Sylvain’s eyes, the sharp analysis in Felix’s. 

“I understand.” Felix murmurs as she straightens. “I don’t mind. I need the challenge.” He doesn't comment on the hands that raise to clutch two coats again. His hand merely rises to graze over hers, holding her while she holds him.

Sylvain is slower to respond, hovering over an answer. She can see him forming the words, the response on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t say anything. 

His situation is a little more grave than Felix’s, after all. 

_I’m madly in love with you._

“I mean it, Sylvain.” Byleth insists. “I shouldn’t have--”

“Maybe we should take this somewhere else,” he interrupts, amber eyes glancing over to the bustling tables of comrades, their friends wandering about nearby. Ingrid waves across the cafeteria, and she stands from her seat when Sylvain waves back. 

“Why?” Byleth lets a teasing smile curl the edge of her lips as she watches Sylvain panic, his hand dropping back to his side. “Can’t be seen being serious in front of everyone?” 

Sylvain shoots her a glance, looking somewhere between impatient and desperate as Ingrid draws near. Quickly, he smooths his ruffled feathers and grasps her hand in his, tugging it free of his cloak.

“I would declare my love for you from the rooftops, if it so pleased you,” he hums, lashes fluttering while he grazes a kiss to her knuckles. Felix squeezes her hand. Heat races down her arms, feeding the flames in her chest. “But I’d rather this be between us.” 

Felix draws up tight like a bowstring, fingers going stiff around Byleth’s. “I should go.” He announces, turning on his heel. 

Fingers roughened from years of weapon training and black magic -- callouses they all share -- wind tight into the gemstone bright fabric of Felix’s coat, anchoring the swordsman in place.

“I said between _us_, didn’t I,” Sylvain’s voice drops low, as rough as his hands. “C’mon. Unless you want Ingrid to interrogate us for the rest of the night.”

Pliant to the taller man’s will, the swordsman and the swordswoman let themselves be pulled away, trailing behind a cloak of midnight blue and hair of sunset red. 

Ingrid calls after them, but they weave through tall hedges and iron gates until the only thing they can hear is each other panting, catching the breath they’d lost in their haste.

With all the hustle and bustle -- not to mention the fire blazing in her core -- she’d become quite warm beneath her long-sleeved coat. With a final sigh, Byleth tugged her sleeves off her shoulders, exposing heated skin to the cool night air. 

It was nice out, tonight. Not too hot and not too cold. She certainly wouldn’t mind if --

“_Professor,_” 

Two surprised hisses pull her back to the present. Fire lights a trail down her arm as Sylvain lets go of her hand to trace the lace pattern of her sleeves. Felix hasn’t let go of her hand yet.

“Yes?” 

Two men exchange glances, two pairs of mouths open and close, two hands squeeze around hers. 

“Your dress, it…” Felix trails off, unable to force the words out. 

“...It looks nice.” Sylvain finishes for him, thumbing at the black lace around her wrist. 

Despite Byleth’s murmured _thank you_, they stand there in silent awe of each other, drinking in the expensive fabric and exposed skin that seems to glow in the moonlight. 

_There is much to discuss. We can’t stand here all night._ An annoyed tone quite similar to Sothis’ voice echoes in her mind, but she knows it is merely her own thoughts. 

It takes a lot of effort to break the silence, but she manages it with a half-hearted, “You were saying?” aimed in Sylvain’s direction. 

The redhead’s sigh is long and wounded -- and for a moment it looks like he wants to bolt, wants to throw all of his progress away. Thankfully, he stays rooted in place, anchored by the hands of the two people he dragged with him. 

Sylvain looks up, and Byleth immediately drowns in honey gold. 

“I’m serious. And I _was _serious. Before, I mean,” he stumbles, nervously toeing the dirt with his boot. “I think you know that now, but you didn’t before. So, please,” he whispers, uncharacteristically reserved, “Believe me when I say I would do anything for you.”

The warmth in her chest gleams yellow bright, spreading leisurely across her skin. 

A tug on her arm directs her attention to the third member of their party, and she barely catches a glimpse of lips twisted into a pout before she’s adrift within a crimson blaze. 

“I’m serious too.” Felix insists, stubbornly holding eye contact (despite his aversion to it). “I won’t lose you. Not again.” 

For a moment, it’s perfect. The three of them, linked by the curl of possessive fingers, all in consensus for what they know to be true, content to be --

“And I--” Sylvain chokes on his words, a dramatic crescendo shattering the moment. “I’m… You were right, earlier, when you told me I needed to tell Felix the truth too,” 

Byleth knows she’s right, but Felix doesn’t seem to agree.

“_Stop_,” 

Sylvain follows instructions, pausing mid-sentence. 

“You’re making this _way_ more difficult than it needs to be.” The swordsman pleads, his entire body bowed as if he’s in some kind of pain. 

Gathering his resolve, Sylvain shakes his head. “No. I’ve made promises to you, too, Felix. I can’t just cast those aside.” He takes another breath in, sharp and quick, then barrels forwards. “I’m laying my cards out on the table, tonight. No more lying to myself, no more lying to you, no more lying to our dear professor.”

The confession settles comfortably in Byleth’s center, weighing her down for the moment. In moments like these, it’s clear how much Sylvain has really grown. 

She’s proud of him. She loves him.

“You’re telling me,” Felix growls, shaking his head in irritated defeat. “That in all these years of chasing every woman that crosses your path -- _including_ this one,” he gestures with a shake of Byleth’s arm, “That you never let go of some stupid childhood crush.”

The older man doesn’t even hesitate. “Yep.”

The groan that leaves Felix is ripe with exasperation. 

“You’re _impossible_,” comes a hiss between clenched teeth, “What sort of signals were you hoping to send, whoring yourself off to anyone that batted their eyelashes in your direction?”

_Ah,_

Byleth’s gaze slides over to Sylvain, who has tensed under her grasp. Felix has always been good at pushing buttons, even when he doesn’t know they’re there, and this… this is a sensitive topic. 

For a moment, she truly believes Sylvain is going to shrug off that pleasant demeanor of his and sink his teeth into the man beside him (_maybe I’ll collect the debt_ echoing in her mind), but he merely… sags, the fight drained out of him before he could ever fight. 

“Do you remember my first crush?” The cavalier asks instead, staring morosely at the way his fingers are entwined with Felix’s. “That girl, Sophia, from the village nearby? You were kinda young, so I doubt you --”

“She broke your heart.” Felix remembers aloud, pointedly refusing to meet anybody’s eyes. (Not that Sylvain is looking anyways.) “You never told me what happened, but you stopped talking about her out of nowhere.”

Still staring at the ground, Sylvain looks kind of impressed that Felix even remembers. Byleth settles in, waiting for the rest of the story. 

“It wasn’t the first time I’d ever fallen in love, but it was… it was the first time someone ever loved me _back_. Everyone had kinda wrinkled their noses at my advances so far, so to find someone that _wanted_ me, that _listened_ to me, it… it was so… so nice.” He whispers the words, the story heavy on his tongue. “And then, by total accident, I overheard her mom praising her for reeling in a noble suitor. When I asked her about it, she… she didn't even deny it. She told me I was cute and funny and all, but if I hadn’t been a noble… If out of nowhere, I was disowned, she’d leave me in a heartbeat.” 

A ragged breath tears through the silence between them. 

“And, y’know, it hurt to be played like that, but whatever, move on,” he’s trying to be upbeat, Byleth can tell, but the light behind his eyes is fading, like it always does when he talks about his heritage. “But it kept happening. Over and over and over, noble and commoner alike, it wasn’t about _me_. It was always about my _Crest_. My status. What I have. Nobody wants me for who I am.” Sylvain wrings her hand between his while he closes his story. It’s uncomfortable, but she can’t find it in herself to complain. 

The heavy stillness in the air only sits for a moment before it’s broken by a sharp _tch!_

Felix tosses his head back with a snap, looking up to glare at the taller man beside him. “I’ve _always_ wanted you for who you are. You’re just an idiot, sometimes.”

The confession settles comfortably in Byleth’s center, right next to Sylvain’s. In moments like these, it’s clear how much Felix has really grown. 

She’s proud of him. She loves him.

Her father’s ring weighs heavy in her pocket. 

“Why’d you think sleeping around was going to fix that?” Felix wonders, genuinely puzzled. Sylvain can’t help but laugh in response, sheepishly meeting the swordsman’s eyes.

“Hey, I said I had reasons, not that I was a perfect man.” He huffs, flushing the sweetest shade of pink. 

“How boring you would be, if you were a perfect man,” Byleth agrees aloud -- and apparently they’d forgotten she was there, despite clutching to either of her hands, since they both startle at the reintroduction of her voice. 

Something possessive flares in her chest -- bright and hot alongside the contentment that soothes her soul, a direct result of seeing her students get along. 

_Do not forget about me. I am here too._

“Does that--” Sylvain swallows hard, and she can’t help but watch his throat bob with the movement. “Does that please you?” 

_Ah, well… Out with it, I suppose._

“It does.” She hums, glancing between them. “Both of you please me, just as you are. Very much.” 

_Both of you_

_The two of you_

_Someone you love_

She receives… very different responses from the two men standing before her.

Felix tilts his head back with a groan that sounds suspiciously like exasperation, and Sylvain cocks his head to the side, quietly confused, waiting for clarification. 

“You’re both impossible! Why are you like this?” The swordsman demands, throwing his hands (their hands) up in the air. “Why can’t you just pick one like a normal person??”

“How boring would I be, if I were a normal person,” Byleth wonders aloud instead of answering, much to Felix’s dismay. 

Sylvain, however, looks positively lost in thought, the gears in his head clicking so loud, Byleth swears she can hear them. “You mean to tell me,” he forms his words slowly, the idea still processing, “That, given the opportunity, you would have us both?” 

Despite the effort he makes to conceal it, Felix looks absolutely floored. “That’s- that’s an _option?_ ” He screeches, bewildered -- as if it had never occurred to him -- his glossy braid whipping back and forth as he glares at Byleth and Sylvain in turn. “You would _do _that?” 

Ever collected, Byleth’s nod is slow, calm. “I would. Would you?” 

The question seems to throw a wrench in the two men’s turning gears. Both of them freeze, carefully considering the question, carefully avoiding looking at each other. 

“I will not agree to anything that does not have your wholehearted agreement.” She informs them, firm in a decision she's already considered all outcomes of. “I would love to be committed to both of you. But if either of you are uncomfortable with such an arrangement, I would understand.”

There is no power in Fodlan, divine or mortal, that could convince her to commit to both of them if one of them was averse to the idea. If they were uncomfortable with the prospect of sharing, if they couldn’t be convinced to be tied down -- no matter the reason, wholehearted, enthusiastic consent would be the only thing pushing the three of them into a relationship tonight. 

“I’m not uncomfortable with it.” Sylvain is quick to climb aboard, something hungry in his eyes as he looks between the two people holding his hands. “Are you kidding me?” He responds to a confounded glare from Felix with an equally exasperated answer. “After all this time, all this fighting with myself -- to be allowed to have her _and_ you? It’s- it’s all I’ve ever _wanted_.” 

Despite Sylvain’s enthusiasm, Felix is… oddly silent. 

Staring off into nothing, eyebrows scrunched together, he runs his thumb over Byleth’s knuckles a few times before he finally speaks. 

“Who would you have, if you could only choose one?” 

It’s a question she’s thought over many times before. 

It’s a question she carries around in her pocket, forged into glistening silver, inset with glimmering indigo.

Felix’s confession echoes back at her, quiet, soft, pained. _I’m afraid to lose. I’ve lost too much._

“How could I choose?” 

She answers Felix like she answers herself. 

“How could I choose when you both bring such wonderful things to the table? When you challenge and comfort me in ways the other can’t -- in ways no one else can?" She demands. "When I can go to Sylvain and have my spirits lifted with sweet words and attentive praise, when I can go to Felix and relax, free to cross blades without putting on airs about my mood or my strength? How could I choose?” She lists off, holding them tight, hoping they won’t slip away. “How can I choose between two men laden with strength and intelligence and cunning and skill? Two beautiful, _stunning_, charming men,” her pleased hum resonates in the air while she returns Felix’s gesture and runs her thumbs over the hands she holds. 

“Alright, that’s enough praise,” Sylvain warbles, fighting back a grin.

“No need to butter me up.” Felix grumbles, echoing the tone he takes when she compliments his technique. “I get it. I get it.” He echoes himself, still lost in his own thoughts. 

Byleth watches in surprise when Sylvain drops Felix’s hand -- and Felix must be startled too, because his head whips up, but he moves just in time for gentle fingers to cup his cheek, careful, hesitant. 

“If we were to… If she…with both of us,” the smooth talker can’t seem to find the words, discarding every sentence he starts in favor of a new one. He shakes his head to clear it, red hair flying, and settles on, “Would you have me, too?”

Byleth is no fool.

She sees the way Sylvain leans down, sees the way crimson eyes dart to parted lips, stuck fast on the promise of a kiss. 

Felix turns to her, but his eyes are so far away. 

“Would you-- would that please you?” The shorter man rasps, one last-ditch effort to resist -- or is he double-checking? -- before he finally gives in. 

“Nothing would please me more than knowing that the men I love also love each other.” She hums, letting a smile crinkle the corners of her eyes.

Despite how very lost he looks, Felix focuses back in on her grin as if it’s a lantern in the darkness. His gaze flicks up to her eyes, double, triple checking (and she nods, for good measure), before he turns back to Sylvain, reaches up with his newly freed hand, and yanks him down by his collar.

Truly, regardless of the outcome she’d intended for the night, she is perfectly content to watch Sylvain and Felix grapple for control, mouths hot and open and panting against each other while they learn where their lips best fit together, while they breathe the same air, tugging each other closer, closer,

It’s nice, because Felix only lets go of her hand to reach for her hip, which he grips like a lifeline while Sylvain kisses the life out of him. It’s nice, because Sylvain never stops stroking her fingers while he grips Felix’s chin in his other hand. It’s nice to watch them go at it, to resolve a tension even _she_ could feel wound tight between them. 

It’s nice, because when Sylvain finally steps back, releasing Felix’s face to swipe the back of his hand over his mouth, Felix looks absolutely kiss drunk, gone on the sensation of lips hungry against his. It’s nice, because when she squeezes his arm, the swordsman turns to her with the eyes of a man gone wild and cages her up against the nearest wall to seal his lips over hers. 

He _devours_ her, forgoing any chaste first kisses in favor of slotting his lips between hers, nipping at whatever he can draw between his teeth until she gasps in surprise. He’s quick to enter her mouth, tongue lapping and curling against whatever it can reach, but Byleth has _never_ been one to sit back and take things, and she quickly rises to the challenge. 

Upon the first press of her tongue, Felix groans into her mouth like a man unhinged -- and if she wasn’t hot before, she’s certainly hot now. She presses and prods at him, corralling him back into his mouth until she can properly explore, enjoying the wet sounds as Felix eagerly sucks at the intrusion. 

Under her palm, she feels Felix’s bicep flex, feels his body tense against hers, then relax, all at once -- and only after she registers Felix’s reaction does she realize Sylvain has pressed himself to the shorter man’s back, joining in on their little tryst. 

“My turn,” the redhead rumbles, and Felix moans -- not yelps, _moans_ \-- when Sylvain buries a hand in his neatly braided ponytail and yanks him out of the way.

Byleth doesn’t have a moment to protest the loss -- nor to process that _wonderful_ sound -- before Sylvain leans over Felix’s shoulder and claims her mouth for his own. 

She quickly learns why Felix looked so positively _wrecked_ after a few moments of exchanging kisses with Sylvain. 

Everything the taller man does is slow, tantalizingly perfect, _searing_ with purpose. Every drag of his lips has Byleth chasing after him, every swipe of his tongue has her begging for more.

Felix seems content to be squashed between them, intermittently groaning against her neck and squeezing her hips every time Sylvain rocks against him. When she lifts her hand from his arm, just enough semblance of thought left over to bury her fingers in his hair and _pull_, Felix _yowls_ and sinks his teeth into her shoulder. 

Paired with Sylvain’s tongue running over the roof of her mouth, her cheeks warm beneath his palms, Byleth really has no choice but to moan. The sound is muffled against a devious tongue and kissed-pink lips, but it comes across loud and clear. 

“_Fuck_ \-- professor, if you keep this up, I --” Sylvain hisses, amber eyes glinting in the moonlight as Felix wiggles insistently between them. “You too, Fraldarius -- don’t think I can’t feel you rocking against the front of my pants.” 

“And if I am?” Felix challenges, releasing the professor’s neck to tip his head back and meet Sylvain’s gaze. From her ear to her collarbones, Byleth sparks and tingles, mourning the loss of spit slicked lips and sharp teeth that fuel the fire beneath her skin. 

With Felix’s head tilted back like this, she can fully admire the column of his throat, pale, unmarked skin nearly gleaming in the soft light of the moon. 

She takes it upon herself to hook a finger in his collar and duck her head down to meet his neck, pressing a sloppy kiss to the underside of his jaw to begin. The high pitched noise of surprise from Felix doesn’t deter her in the least -- if anything, it spurs her on -- and a graze of her teeth against his adam’s apple makes a whine buzz against her lips. 

“Careful, professor,” Sylvain teases, watching her with dark eyes and a sharp smile. “Haven’t you noticed Felix likes to keep his neck covered? He’s _sensitive_ there,”

“Sh-shut up!” Felix interjects, lifting his head off of Sylvain’s shoulder to protect the exposed weakness.

Neither Sylvain nor Byleth give him the chance. 

In unison, two hands grip a handful of ink-black hair and _pull_, two mouths lock onto either side of the curve of skin exposed by the resulting motion, and Felix. is. _lost._

“_Hnn- ahh, please_, please,” the swordsman gasps, eyes wide while lips and tongue make quick work of the sensitive skin of his neck. 

There’s not a single inch untouched between the two of them, combining their efforts to completely dismantle the man trapped between them. Sylvain breathes hot against the shell of his ear while Byleth unbuttons his shirt down far enough to nip at his collarbones, leaving Felix to pant and rut between them, pushing into Byleth and back against Sylvain, completely out of control. 

They don’t even consider the ramifications of the _sounds_ they’re making -- desperate, wrecked moans from Felix while mouths lap at his neck, breathy sighs and grunts from Sylvain while Felix grinds against him and Byleth runs her fingers through his hair, muffled growls from Byleth while she works another red mark into Felix’s pristine skin, while Felix’s hands wander up her sides, while Sylvain’s hand traces the notches of her spine --

“Sylvain!” Felix cries out in equal parts surprise and arousal when a large hand slips between them to palm the front of Felix’s dress pants. 

“Want me to stop?” Comes the breathy confirmation, eager but honest, waiting for consent. 

“I-- _no_, _please_,” Felix mumbles, whining when Byleth rewards him with a tug on his hair. “If you stop, I swear I’ll kill you,”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Sylvain mumbles -- but Byleth can tell he’s pleased nonetheless. “What’s the point in --”

“Felix?” 

The three of them freeze. 

“Is that you? Is Sylvain over there, too?” A voice that is clearly Ingrid’s floats over the gates and hedges and walls protecting them from being seen. “Have you seen the professor? Dimitri’s throwing a fit again, and Edelgard’s not really helping. I know you were with her last, so --”

“Tell that beast to go _fuck himself_,” Felix growls, beyond frustrated by being interrupted at such a crucial moment.

“It is you, Felix,” Ingrid chirps, unperturbed. “Have you seen the professor around?” She repeats, heading closer. 

Crimson eyes dart down to said professor's neck, where Byleth is certain lies a mess of red splotches and teeth marks. 

“Last I knew, she was headed for the bathhouse.” Felix lies through his teeth, voice shaking. He shudders when Sylvain strokes a thumb down his neck -- and though he glares at the man behind him, the move seems to bolster his confidence, somehow. “If you hurry, you might catch her before she retires for the night.” 

“Ah!” Ingrid chirps. The footsteps that had been steadily nearing their hiding place pause, and after another beat, pick up again, heading in the opposite direction. “Thank you!” 

Sylvain chuckles darkly, stroking damp skin with his thumb. “Mean,” he chastises the shorter man, shaking his head. “You’re so mean.” 

“Bought us some time,” Felix mumbles, echoing Sylvain’s ministrations with a finger against Byleth’s shoulder. “I can only conjure a healing spell so fast. It’s not my specialty.” 

Their professor hums under her breath, content, while the white magic mends her skin. She’s a little disappointed when the pleasant tingling subsides, quickly longing for the dull throb that served as a pleasant reminder of the way the swordsman had devoured what was offered to him.

“You’ll replace them, right?” She murmurs, tracing along one of the many marks she’d imprinted into his skin. “So I can see them for myself, sometime?” 

She isn't expecting a smile to pull at Felix’s lips, something genuine and warm and slightly exasperated, but she welcomes it all the same.

“Yes. Of course.” He assures her, unusually soft while he strokes her cheek. 

“Now off with you,” Sylvain shoos her away, ignoring Felix’s grumbles and complaints while he untangles the three of them from where they’re piled on top of the shorter woman. “Our King requires your assistance.”

The two men make a show of cheerfully bidding her goodbye, but Byleth Eisner is no fool.

She’s pretty sure they’ll miss her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY FINALLY MADE OUT YEEEAAAAAA
> 
> now i have clearance to put my grubby, smutty little hands all over this pairing nyehehehehehe
> 
> look, i only wrote these opening T-rated fics to set up the relationship between these three so I could go absolutely feral on the following E-rated fics i have planned, so stRAP IN

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this is so tame. I'm controlling myself, i'm holding myself back, I'm-


End file.
